A subtle, albeit cruel punishment.

No dimension. No implication. No impression. No sound. This is the waiting game. In my opinion, a wicked form of abuse to be inflicted on another human being.

Prisoners are made to wait. Patients recuperating are made to wait. So are kins of tragedy victims. And lovers.

Waiting is omnipresent. The chain must be broken. We must not make another waits. We must be responsible and reliable.

Call me, fucker.

Counting blessings.

The sheer comfort of having a kindred spirit. Someone who shares your ideals, thoughts, likings, dislikes and yet, unique in everyway.

It is amazing how we mesh together. We certainly do not embarass one another (okay, maybe sometimes after the booze) and in spite of the crude name calling, our mutual respect is indisputable. I love you babe, you’re my best friend forever and ever.

I have a propensity to gain weight at the wrong places. My major peeves are the herculean extensions of my body I call arms. No matter how much weight I lose, my arms will forever trick eyes into believing that I’m chubby. Weight trainning, rowing, pilates, slimming cream; you name it, I’ve done it. It’s fucking genetics, nuf’ said. Arrgh…the pity!

Second major peeves are my breasts and derrriere. In this case, they don’t grow. They just don’t. From the side, I look like a lamp post, albeit a thick one. Unless on days when I OD-ed on pork knuckles, visible to the eyes would be a relatively large pouch attached to my midriff.

Okay, I’ve vented. I’m fine. I hate my body but it’s my body. I’m glad I wasn’t born a potato.

Once, I had such an intense backpain for almost a month that I thought I wouldn’t walk. That was one emotional roller coaster.

Once, I fractured my wrist and I thought it won’t be normal anymore. Nerve racking.

Once, a jealous slow mutherfucker tripped me while we were racing to a checkpoint in a child’s game. My face went sliding a couple of metres down the cemented ground. I healed and thank goodness my young skin did not allow any obvious scar to show.

All these reminiscences are making me grateful.

All or nothing at all.

You put on a brave front. You pretend not to care. You attempt to move on. You do everything in your power to extinguish him from your mind. Needless to say, you fail miserably.

Throughout my relatively short dating history, I’ve had been smouldered in the palms of such men. They are elusive, never allowing you into their scheming minds. However, at times, they do let you explore the labyrinth, albeit never forgetting to replace the cake crumbs leading to the exit. So, you become trapped. Enticed by the privilege at first, then the promises that never were.

At only 20, I find myself becoming cynical. Where have my ideals gone? Where are the dreams of hot meals I cooked, the crisp shirts I ironed and the perfect suburban home he bought? The morning kisses and goodnight kisses and “see you 1st thing in the mornings”? I am becoming jaded, evolving fast into cranky 50 year old spinsters I so loved to snigger at.

All or nothing at all. Don’t discriminate that.