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So this is what it’s like to get your heart broken.

It hurts like nothing I’ve felt before.

I’ve been screwed over, yes, but that’s entirely different. See, only assholes screw. At the very start of things, I know when the person I’m dealing with is a jerk and I can tell when his innate assholeness will bring me nothing but trouble later on.

But heartbreak…in order to get your heart broken, you first have to trust someone enough to allow yourself to be put in a vulnerable position. You take the risk of opening yourself up, aware of the possibility that your heart may get trampled on, but also of the chance that you will escape this limbo in one piece and live happily ever after with the man of your desires and your fantasies.

What hurts the most about getting your heart broken is not the pain per se, or the events that led up to the said heartbreak. It’s the rude awakening from the most peaceful sleep you’ve had in years, the disillusionment of watching a beautiful dream fade and fall apart to reveal the stark ugliness of the reality you live in. It’s the despair that comes with the knowledge that you have risked so much and revelaed the most sacred, intimate parts of yourself, only to fail to attain what you were after.

Tonight, I shall throw out any plans of getting any schoolwork done, smoke myself to an asthma attack, and drink myself to sleep.

Tomorrow, I will wake up a very bitter and jaded woman with the biggest eyebags on the planet.

EDIT: Bati na kami. :p And I have monster eyebags from all that crying. Wahoo.

It’s not so much that I have a new book to read over the break; it’s the fact that it’s a book from him. He took the time to order one of his favorite books and send it all the way here. To me!!! <3

I’m grinning and giggling like a twelve-year old schoolgirl. I can’t remember the last time I felt this touched. This is the best Christmas present ever.

Roger: I hate import and export laws. Why the hell do you have to declare what you send to people anyway? As long as it’s not illegal.
Me: I know. It’s a total invasion of privacy.
Roger: Fuckheads.
Me: You know what we should do? We should blow up all the post offices and mailboxes in the world as a form of protest.
Roger: But what if one of my packages is in there?
Me: Well you can grab the package before the post office explodes in a big ball of fire.
Roger: Maybe I’ll have other packages waiting too.
Me: Just run in and find them before the bomb explodes, damnit.
Roger: Nah, too lazy.
Me: Then once all the post offices and mailboxes in the world are blown to pieces, we can establish a new mailing system. With you and me as king and queen. Anyone who disagrees with our laws will be beheaded.
Roger: Or we could just move together somewhere so we don’t have to send each other stuff.

That works out too. That works out.

Pat and I are the kind of people who get a huge kick out of eating at hole-in-the-wall carinderias and hanging out at Starbucks without purchasing a single coffee bean. To celebrate our two-year anniversary, we decided to take a break from our simple lifestyle and go all-out on a buffet dinner at the Paseo Uno restaurant in the Mandarin Hotel.

Despite the fact that we were eating at a fancy-schmancy place, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to act like bored, snobby socialites. Then again, just because poeple are in someplace new, that doesn’t mean they can’t act as themselves. So although we were more or less messing around with each other like we normally do, we had to restrain ourselves from cracking jokes at the expense of the foreigners eating at the restaurant. They probably have all the money in the world to sue our asses if we offend them.

The food was just as fantastic as we remembered it. However, the second highlight of the evening (the first is being with Pat, of course) was not the food (orgasmic as it was), but seeing a mama-san in action at the lobby of the hotel. For those who don’t know, a mama-san is a female pimp. I think. Anyway, the mama-san we saw was this plump, middle-aged woman dressed really casually. We figured that she was one because every time we went out to go to the bathroom, she’d be talking to different girls who looked like they were prostitutes. Once, we rode with the mama-san and two prostitutes in the elevator, and we overheard the mama-san interviewing the girls, asking for their names and so on. We couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation because the restroom was on the second floor and they were going to the 17th–which is where the hotel rooms are.

In spite of the fact that I despise whores and women who sleep around, they really, really fascinate me. Prostitutes, especially. I was half-tempted to strike up a conversation with the mama-san, but I’m not the kind of person who can chat up random strangers. So I didn’t. I really want to learn the workings of the sex trade industry in the Philippines though, just out of sheer curiousity. Perhaps I’ll do a qualitative study on that someday.

We planned on eating at the buffet until it closed at 11 but by 9 we were so full, we didn’t even have any room left for coffee. Paseo Uno was starting to empty out; the diners were leaving, and even mama-san was nowhere to be found. Full from hotel food and defeated by the buffet, we decided it was time to head home. So the night was definitely over, but I think Pat and I still have a long way to go.

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