I Am The Walrus

Melancholy apparently brings out the writer in me. I’ve been sad the last few days. Proof is in the dark circles under my eyes that have gone from gray to blue to purple.

I’ve been crying a lot. But I don’t want to tell. I’m still hoping someday I can tell the world of that story because it’s a wonderful love story, but I still can’t.

It’s true that Valentine’s day serves no real purpose — love should be celebrated all year round. Boyfriends should give girlfriends flowers every damn day even if it would endanger the existence of the rose plant species. Husbands should take their wives out on dates and make them feel sexy and wanted every damn day even if it means upping the country’s population. But it’s an effective marketing ploy and everybody benefits from it — even the networks hardyharhar.

(I’m supposed to plug the movie When I Met U out of loyalty to GMA but Richard Gutierrez annoys me and I loathe KC Concepcion for deep-seated reasons)

I’m a girl. I want the flowers. I want the chocolates in a heart-shaped box. I want the free dinner (heck, who doesn’t?). I want a guy to tell me I’m beautiful and I want a guy to stare at me like he needs to. There, I said it. And come Valentine’s day, I want it even more.

But alas… tragically (naks), this is the nth Valentine’s day that I will be celebrating it alone.

Well, not really alone. When I came home from work last night, my son gave me a piece of paper with the words “Valentine Happy” scribbled inside a red heart and the words “Mama” and “Cojie” on either side of the heart. My son has lovely handwriting, did you know? It’s weird because neither me nor the sperm-donor a.k.a. his father had good handwriting.

Also, for about three years now, I’ve been celebrating Valentine’s Day with my girlfriends Fafilicious and Joy the Jowable. We just hang out somewhere, sip on coffees and make fun of ugly couples harharhar.

Sigh.

I sometimes think maybe there are just people built for certain functions. There’s a woman meant to be a wife. Meant to be a mother. Meant to be a sister. Meant to be a daughter. Meant to be a girlfriend. Meant to be a friend. There are those who can be all of these, but there are those who will only be one or two of these at a time. Or for the rest of their lives.

I think I’m an awesome friend. I’m good at daughtering. I’m average at mothering. Maybe I’m not really built to be a wife, thus the lack of relationships. I look at friends of mine who are married and they’re just a different species to me. For one thing, they’re not as….. crazy as I am hahaha.

Or perhaps there’s a skill I have yet to learn? At 32? Damn. (I just realized now that the statement above appears lewd and obscene but it definitely isn’t.)

I’m at a Taco Bell and there’s a couple in front of me enjoying a burrito. Clackityclackclackclackclack….. I’m out of endings. I’m stuffing my laptop back in my bag and heading home.