Lady irony can make your life a real hell.
Picture this. You get into a relationship primarily for the reason that the other person is there. You like her but you’re not exactly sure you love her back. You enjoy her company and you admire a lot of her traits. On top of that, you at least believe -- the operative word is then -- that she will treat you well. This is what you call the offspring of jadedness and wishful thinking. This goes on with all the appurtenances of a relationship meaning: kilig moments, lqs, weekends together, days apart, her helping you with your law school assignments, time spent together instead of time spent for study and work, gift-giving, painful words hurled at each other, meeting each other’s friends, meeting each other’s exes, etc., etc, etc.
Then, something happens to her and she’s gone just like that. You know she has cause to do so, and you try to tell her you understand but for some generation-rooted reason, she automatically assumes that you’re being such a completely unyielding, self-absorbed… thing, without giving you the chance to say your piece. Let me just point out that like half of the population of this world, you absolutely hate it when you do or at least you try to do something, and people make it appear you’re doing completely the opposite of it. It’s truly frustrating, unfair, high-handed, and cheap.
Since you are a self-healing entity, and you still have dementors posing as law professors and friends who share your blood type – alcohol – you deal with her absence and move on. And since you’re not the tin man and your flesh is weak, you soon find yourself falling for other people. The lover is soon shoved in the fossilized past.
On holidays and special occasions you hear from her. She, of course does not hear from you. Why? We can start with two reasons: a) the economy is not improving contrary to what our dear president says and b) cell phone companies’ unlimited text promos can barely accommodate your text schedule. Plus, you try to give you fingers a rest once in awhile.
Almost a year after her flight to Never Land, you see each other upon her invitation. At first you were not too keen with the idea of seeing her at a party, since you’re currently dealing with other existential questions; mundane tasks brought about by merely breathing and living in this cockroach-infested city that you love by the way; and other reasons you dare not voice out lest you be branded as politically incorrect. However, since you truly believe that you have finally learned to calmly approach the mess that happened between the two of you and saying NO has never been your forte, you tell her “I’ll try.”
On the day of the party the decision was almost made for you when, gasp, a dipsomaniac like you almost got puking drunk from the hootch you’ve guzzled during your date last night. So you tell her, you really can’t go. Ah, but a friend is alone and needs to go out and party, so you gather your wits and go.
There she is, the woman who once shared your bed. And there they are, your other friends. You realized how much you missed them. And how much you missed going to parties like this. Well, parties similar to this. You also get to meet one of her exes. Since you appreciate beauty and your mind usually has a different take on certain things, you hear your brain say, “Wow! She’s a looker” and said ex momentarily becomes your preoccupation. Harmless crush. It’s not even a credible word nowadays. Hormones talking. So you’re safe. Really you are. Damn Femmes! You’re femme too (I’m doing this by default, ask my les friends why) so you accept that femmes of the species are really fabulous thereby deserving of curses once in awhile if only for their beauty. So damn femmes! Damn me!
Zooming back on your fossilized lover, you tell yourself “In fairness, she looks good”. Much better than how she looked when you two were still together. The word together is very flexible. And since in the world of Jedi lesbians she is already a Jedi master - Yoda actually - she manages to make the equation look like {you + her = still (or more) together}, instead of {you + her + unilateral actions = exes}. But you’re cool with it. Years of donning the “gabi costume” has paid off. It’s like second skin. Seriously…
Trouble begins day after the party. Armed with your cranky but unli-powered cell phones, you two trade compliments, rhetoric about the sighting, witty comments, you know the usual repartee. This went on until you find yourself compos mentis no more! You remember the good stuff, absolutely censored stuff, absolutely sweet stuff, absolutely crazy stuff. You’re absolutely whacked out!
You’re beginning to think that you might be falling in love with your fossilized ex! WTF is that?! How can this happen? You remind yourself that food, among other things, you can eat. Words you don’t, can’t and you mustn’t. Why are you reneging on your promises to yourself again? As you puff nicotine in your body you’re hit with one scary thought, maybe you were really in love with her before and this is just a very interesting time warp. Two more puffs and another thought enters your stream of consciousness, it could very well be because you’re in the desert and she is a mirage, an illusion. No difference from before. She just happens to be there.
Since you hear no miraculous voice giving you the answers you need, you content yourself with the conclusion that she really is some kind of a harbinger designed to maximize the annihilation of peace in your life so you proceed to hum… Women, what is it about them, can’t live with them or without them.
This reminds me, I should be getting myself a copy of RENT the movie
