Thursday, July 06, 2006


I know that you didn’t tell me because you had a good reason. But I hope that maybe, you considered a bit about this incident, the time when he cheated on you, remember? All of your other friends believed that not telling you was the best for you, the least painful, because of course, it salvages a bit of your pride if the sinner himself told you. And what did I do? I sat you down and told you. You cried. You were hurt. There was this pain in your chest. I was there. I protected you from the cats of Oble.

You were giving me hints all the time. I defended him every time. What did it feel like? If you weren’t laughing behind my back, maybe you’re shaking your head: poor misguided soul, I am. Too idealistic, too trusting, too stupid. How do you think would you feel if I didn’t tell you, then? Everyone would be shaking their heads too. You would have been the fool. But I couldn’t make you that, can I.

And you. You’re too nice. Even though you knew all about this business, you shut your mouth. You had the same reason as our other friend here, that it’s better if he himself was the one to tell me. You hung out with us. You agreed with everything I said. You laughed with him, you cried with him, you tried to understand him. Unlike out other friend, who moved away and swore that nothing will be the same with him again.

Both of you. Would you believe it, I understand you. I find your reasoning highly rational. You were only thinking about what’s good for me, because I am your friend and we’ve been through everything together. Thank you for caring so much. But do you know, I understand, I really do.

But I’m hurt. You knew I was being stupid and you just let it be. You watched me be his champion. You watched me while I still fussed over him. Again I ask: what did it feel like? How was the painful never-ending scene of my humiliation? Was it funny, to some extent?

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to say that…I do understand both of you. You were just out for me, nothing less. I’m sorry that I am an ungrateful little wretch.

And you. You.

I believed so much in you. I thought you were different. I thought that…fuck. No more. Suffice it to say that you’re a fake. I don’t think I can forgive you. I don’t know what I did wrong to get this shit from you. I don’t know why you have to do this to me. I always thought that if there was any reason for us to break off (like a pathetic piece of aimless driftwood), the reason would come from me. Hell no. And the funny thing is, you cheating on me, you’re blaming it all on genetics. Holy carabao shit. Genetics.

Where’s the punch line, I wonder.

Wait for a few days, and you’ll really hear the most hilarious punch line of my life.


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