I’ve been ranting and raving for the past few days that I’ve been wasting the money of the company I’m pretending to be working for and it seems that whatever is on my chest isn’t likely to leave anytime soon. I still feel the urge to put words to paper (figuratively speaking) so here I am, sitting in front of my laptop, pecking away furiously.
Yeah, i can be an overbearing asshole at times as some of my college friends can attest, or an insufferable male chauvinist pig as some of my ex-girlfriends can tell you and i can be a very confusing partner as some of my ex-almost-girlfriends can testify, but I’ve always made it a point to be as fair as i can be, to be as real as possible. I’ve never believed in putting my best foot forward when dealing with people. its either you like me or you don’t. It’s as simple as that.
Now, you’ve all heard the saying that boys don’t cry, men do. I tend to believe that. Crying is a normal human emotion. It’s biological for Christ’s sake! I’ve had my share of crying episodes complete with snot running down my face like a 5 year old whose candy got swiped by the playground bully (try losing a partner of three years to cancer and you’ll catch my drift). It’s not about masculinity and all that crap. It’s about accepting the fact that you got hurt, and the pain is a real bitch.The times I’ve cried, I felt that it wasnt right to hold things inside when all you’ve got to put things into perspective is this short-sighted version of yourself being high and mighty and invincible. Inevitably, there are going to be cracks in your armor and it is plain wrong not to acknowledge it. It would be foolish to go into battle with a cracked shield and rusting armor. So you let it out all on the line and strip down your defenses to see where you’re weak. Step out for a moment and look at your gear and fix it, even if it means standing naked in the rain. It will make you stronger in the long run. I remember when my (then) girlfriend Kim died. I managed to hold back my tears for all of 30 seconds when I got the news and I’ve always regretted not being by her side when she took her last breath. It’s a regret I’ll take to my grave. When I managed to get myself under control, it seems that time stopped. I don’t remember who or what I saw before I went to her house for the wake although I vaguely remember crying on my best friend Nia’s shoulder and clutching her so tightly I forgot she was pregnant. I vaguely remember meeting Sam and Ritchie in the hallway of the school, seeing their faces trying to figure out how to break the news to me gently (they didn’t know that I already got the news). I recall telling them, “So this is how it feels to be widowed”, and then promptly broke down again. Those first few hours, I was about as masculine and as manly as Boy Abunda on hormone pills.
It has been 7 years since I said goodbye to Kim, it has been 7 years since I last saw her face, since I last held her in my arms, since I last kissed her, it has been 7 years since we last made love. I am happy now knowing that somehow, somewhere, she’s looking at me with that strangely beautiful smile, crooked teeth and all, feeling proud that I’ve managed to move on and having somebody to love the way I would have loved her and someone who loves me the way she would have loved me.
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