Sunday, January 27, 2013

An Open Letter to My High School Crush

Dear Pumpkin Pie Cuppycakes Agent Double Oh Seven Bacon Cinnamon Roll,

You could be the one I've been looking for all along in my seven years of constant daydreaming and general feeling of desperation.  (I  have said the same of my college crush BUT that didn't work out.)

Why do we bump into each other at almost every significant milestone in our lives?

The fact that our birthdays fall on the same date is no accident. We were born to celebrate birthdays together. Yes, you proposed Thai food double celebration once, just you and I, mister. There was one along  Ma. Orosa Street. How could I forget. (But what happened to that plan? You should hear me laughing so hard.) We also attended an inter high school writing contest many summers ago and we were even in the same category. Bet you don't remember  that at all.

I used to watch you from a distance back in the day. I was a timid high school girl, and you, well, you were the pinup boy that stepped out of  teenage magazines, mysterious in demeanor, and almost too cool to touch.

You became an obsession in high school and I felt silly for it because the possibility of you ever looking my way was bleak. There was simply no cracking you up nor simple means to approach you.

What went on a week ago? What came to your mind when you saw me? (Prepare to upchuck.) You actually looked my way. More than once. And while you were at it, I tried with difficulty pretending I did not notice it. Because this is what I do: Go under self preservation and subconsciously raise the walls around me. Even in the face of your invitation for a carefree jaunt by your place, not just last week but a couple of times several months ago. I could tell that was more than platonic, by the way, as I am neither as clueless nor as dense as I appear. (Again, I still wonder what  happened to THAT plan. Hahaha.) Contrary to my belief, however, you do remember me as the girl back in your college freshman year.

And you made me tear those walls down. (What the hell am I saying)You made me see you with every tiny gesture and exchange of useless information, funny trivia and painfully familiar , nay,  similar stand on things. You came down from that pedestal I put you on. You simply fell from grace, with your every sip of black coffee (I'm beginning to sound creepy. You, Agent Double Oh Seven, are weird still!) and I sat there listening to your thoughts on religion (or the lack of it) and watching your awkward impersonation of James Bond as we drove past traffic lights with Adele blaring from your speakers.

And the rain pouring down hard. (Us saguittarians loooove the rain. Suckers.)

What's a girl to do with the niceties? Haba ng hair ko, noh?

No, I'm not in love with you. But it is nice to realize that somehow circumstances have allowed us to be more than, say, a casual weekend call. Count on me to give you my thoughts on your favorite book. And how about that underground mafia? Congratulations for passing the bar, by the way. I've shook your hands way more than necessary. Aiyeee. (HAHAHAHA.)

Thank you, dagmats.

Top: Malate shop. Pants: SM. Shoes: Charles and Keith. Bag: Bayo.

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