When she read the entry she sent me a message: Thank you--- for your words, for truths in your soul, for the tears that fell over lunch, for your hand on my chest, on my back, giving me moments to breathe, for being angry, for enduring the want to slap or hurt him, for talking, for listening, for writing, for crying, for living, for being the beautiful soulful bitchy angel goddess that we both are. You are loved. I am loved.
What I had been doing when she sent the message was reading back. I don’t know how many times I have read it but every time I read it I wanted to cry. I read something I have written that had hurt to write on and on and on until it stops hurting me. When she sent the message, I finally cried. I replied hours later that I got her message and that it made me cry and I couldn’t reply at once because I couldn’t form words.
I am not talking again and I know that if I don’t talk soon, I would not talk again in a long time. Just like I knew when I returned from Dumaguete last year that if I didn’t write as soon as I got back, then I would always be hiding in my writing. I need to be able to talk and so that when I’m asked by anyone that life-and-death “Can we talk?” question, I can answer because I have to answer.
The Man On The Ceiling says:
Go as close to the fear as you can.
Know it.
Claim it.
Take it in.
She now knows that I’m not talking again (other than to my family and Joey and barely at that) so she prompts me to talk, little by little, slowly--- simple questions like You having a good night sweetie--- these questions that can be answered by yes or no or very short replies.
It took me five or six years of knowing her and her loving me therefore earning my trust before I chose her to become my psychologist. It took that long because I didn’t want more shrinks fucking with my brain with their talk and drugs. Yes, people who have nervous breakdowns get shrinks. People have nervous breakdowns because life is holy fucking shit. When people have nervous breakdowns, people just (try to) kill themselves because they simply can’t live this holy fucking shit of a life anymore (and drugs or booze are not doing it).
Ma had once told me, so suddenly, four or three or two years ago—Yaya, kung namatay ka nung 1999, mamamatay rin ako. And she had cried out that year, crying to her mother, her sisters and brothers--- 14 years! My child is killing herself because of this! It sounds more raw in our language. And that’s just one holy fucking shit reason. The shrinks and doctors comforted my family at that time with “She’s going to live, she’s going to be okay even if she’s not talking, because, see, she gets up to take a bath everyday.”
Bathe and scrub until you are red and raw to feel clean and you are saved.
And the more you bathe, the more you acquire that schizo-ability to treat the material of your memories with different voices and tones hence you can manipulate words to make something unbelievable understandable. Of course I don’t know if I acquired that ability because I went crazy for a time. Not recommending THAT as a writing tip. Or maybe I’m just babbling gibberish because I can’t talk and I can’t sleep.
Or maybe I’ve become a vegetable.
Some people like me become vegetables. If I do turn into a vegetable one of these days, I want to be a pumpkin. I had liked being called a “pumpkin” though it didn’t really suit me. But it’s better than being an “upo” because if you were Ilocano then you would be calling me “KABATITI”. No thanks (and no thanks to being called “lechugas” or “utong” either).
So I lived and because they also lived that year with me, Ma, Dad and my sisters and brother (and yes, Joey) all decided to just let me be, let her do what she wants, whatever it will be, even if we don’t understand it, what makes her keep on living. Because god knows, they say, she’s ALIVE! ALIVE! like the monster in Frankenstein. Or the bride. Take your pick. And they saw that I would die every time, every time I overdosed and they fought for my life because I couldn’t fight for it anymore, and they fought me to keep me alive.
Overdose tip #1: Take the pills slowly, that means PAUSE in between pills.
Overdose tip #2: If you don’t puke it all out in 2 hours and you passed out that means that doctors cannot pump those pills out of your stomach because they have been diluted.
Overdoes tip #3: I can’t tell you more because my Ma’s going to hell if I do.
Most of that year, Joey didn’t work. Joey would stay with me the whole night to keep watch while I try sleep to nightmares then he would leave in the morning. Hours later, he would be with me again. If the sleeping pills didn’t work then he didn’t sleep too. And of course he had no money because he was not working but he managed (and his managing was not due to his family having more than enough money to spare). He was only 24 years old at that time. I joke about that: that’s how he lost his hair.
Ma and Dad were also working too (in Naga) but then they would be here every weekend. Or whenever they get a call from Ate or Egg saying that I’m in the hospital again in the middle of the week.
Hospitals.
Egg was crying and screaming mad at the rest of family when I was hospitalized in Makati Med September last year and she found out that I was there alone and only with Joey. She had screamed at them-- Why are you not with her now! We are her family! Joey’s not her husband! Knowing that times like those are when I would feel abandoned again by my family, my family who was there but not there. But then again Ma and Dad get scared of me sometimes, especially when I’m not talking anymore because I’m in pain and I actually volunteer to go to a hospital. That was on Egg’s birthday, what a gift.
But then again that’s nothing compared to my birthday gift to Scoobs on his birthday in 1999: I slashed my wrist in front of him and that ruined his birthdays for him for a couple of years. And what does an atheist say when he is surprised? Jesus Christ! as he placed his hand on my bleeding wrist.
One time in 1999 Ma had arrived from the hospital to find our Kalayaan apartment quiet and dark. Lights on: she found Gnomie and TJ just sitting there in the sala, in the dark, quiet; they came home from UP and heard that I was in the hospital again. That haunts me.
When I was at home and not in hospitals, my Ate would leave for work at almost
So I picked up my bag and ran out of the apartment wearing my white daster, slippers, and no bra. I called them hours later from Shakey’s in SM North. Of course they were frantic and Egg and Joey rushed to pick me up. Where did I go in SM North? To the parlor and had everything that could possibly be done. All made up in my daster and slippers: you bet your pretty ass I got stares.
Last night:
“That’s when the vanity started,” I told Aoux, “because life’s holy fucking shit and I can’t do anything about it but at least I could do something about not looking like shit.”
TJ got shit for leaving that knife lying around. Yeah, I pretty much fucked up my family and Joey that year. And nobody wants to go through another round of 1999 because another round would mean I would not survive it and they wouldn’t survive that kind of wound to their souls.
Don’t push.
By 5 pm yesterday, I knew that I needed help. I sent a message to Joey that I was going to the old man and that I was taking the white car, Ma’s retirement car, a Chevy Avios, TJ’s car now because she obviously couldn’t pack it and take it with her to the States. I miss Ma, I can barely smell her in this car.
Joey interrupts me now with his telling me that he will just buy cigarettes. I said “There’s--” then I stop and I become teary. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” he says and hugs me. I point to the screen and slowly say, “I just need to write this.”
I’m relieved that my siblings have been busy and out for the past two days: they don’t see me this way though they know that something is wrong; they just don’t know what.
Then she sends me a message again, “A cute guy in front of me in line for the CR asked me about the concert. He’s taller than me, yummy biceps. Then he tells me that his sister and his GIRLFRIEND were at the concert. What the fuck?!ü” I laughed. She sends me another message--ah, she’s trying to get me to talk.
Talk.
Welcome to my world:
It’s a can of worms.
And worms make you crazy.
Hopefully, it would hold more substance than Brian’s worms and the Gucci Gang worms saga, yes? Oh yes, the stuff of writing drama. You wanted me to write of the pain, well, here it is. And some who are reading this and who know that I’m manic about my privacy are now going OH...MY...GAWD.
Makes me think I have gone unhinged again.
I still have some semblance of control on the can of worms.
I’m just going fishing.
Enjoy the episode.
So I drove to the old man’s place. Driving: I had been prohibited from driving in 1999 because I would almost slam the car into anything to die. When the old man saw me, he said “Uh-oh.” I kept on putting my palms up in a warding gesture, breathing harshly, and I finally blurted out “I can’t talk! Make me talk! Goddammit make me talk!”
Talk.
Last night:
Talking is not talking about the weather or what you did for the day. “That’s not talking,” I said to Aoux. And so to get me to talk, he had asked the questions that would silence me, like “Don’t you think that it’s vanity that you think these men love you?” Silencing me because Joey was right there with us. Then I say what I couldn’t say in the past ten years, “No, not vanity. They said it to me and they showed it to me. Now, what do I do with that when I am in a relationship with Joey?”
The old man tried this and that topic and nothing worked. I opened the laptop and pointed back to him. He read it and said after, “Ah, the subtext. Damn good piece, too. It makes you read it over and over again.”
I said, “This is why I call you slick.”
Before that, he had asked, “Hate or hated?” I had snapped, “Don’t edit! Purpose! Read!” He mumbled, “Yeah, silly me, you don’t slip when it comes to this even when you’re not thinking.”
Then he finally touched on something that got me to talk in fragments. Then I told him to take a shower again because I was taking him out, old man like you needs to be taken out, let you ogle girls, need aircon. Before midnight, I had dropped him off at his place again and was on my way home---
--- almost straight into an 18-wheeler-truck.
I only had 3 bottles of San Mig Light. I pulled over. I sent Joey a message about what happened. Pushing the buttons on the key pad helped me calm down. When I felt that I could talk, I had tried calling Oso because I had promised to let him know when something like that happened---like almost dying like that--- but subscriber cannot be reached please try your call later. Then I sent Basha a message because I remembered at that moment that he was the one I first called when I slammed Joey’s blue Honda Civic into an 18-wheeler-truck in Philcoa that summer (or maybe June) eight years ago.
Joey and I were arguing that night and I was drunk from a long-neck-of-Empoy and he was feeling sick so I drove. What were we arguing about? Reconciling (among other things). I had broken up with him ten days before our second anniversary. I told him that I needed to work some things out like Am I staying with you out of gratitude because you were there when I was going crazy? Can I love other people again? Can I start again? Also, because I fell in love with another boy my age though I wasn’t sure so there was no point in telling Joey about that.
A week before that second anniversary, I had become “officially” in a relationship with that boy without his or my meaning to. Here’s how that happened: Joey’s friend saw us in that ice cream place near the skating rink in Megamall or rather he saw me and that boy’s sister. The boy and his boys left us there and they went shopping for car stuff because they were car-crazy. (And this is why I stopped following F1, McLaren’s time, that boy’s time.) Joey’s friend had asked, “Oh, asan si Joey? What time ka susunduin?” I didn’t know how to begin telling him that Joey would definitely not be picking me up because he and I already broke up.
See, there’s this certain habit that’s a virus that goes: I won’t tell my friends that I broke up with my girlfriend.
And the boy’s sister piped in, “Excuse me, I’m the sister of her new boyfriend.” (The sister, I later found out, had been warned by the mother Be nice to her. Your kuya really loves her.) Joey’s friend said goodbye to me. A minute or so later, my Motorola Startac started ringing and I knew that it was Joey and I knew that his friend had already told him what he found out. I switched off my phone.
On the drive home, the boy kept on asking, “You ok?” He knew about the meeting by the rink.
I kept on nodding every time then I asked him, “Are we together in this? Whatever happens?”
He looked at me, hugged me and said “Yes.”
When the boy dropped me off at home, he checked if Joey was there and found that he wasn’t. When he left (after I told him that I would be fine) I called Joey and said, “I’m home. Let’s talk.” Joey arrived angry. Until now I can’t even write about how angry he was or what happened. But that was that, we were done, and I was trying to hold myself together and Egg was holding me, holding me together, “Sshhh, shhh, you’re not crazy.”
Just a little bit more of a push and I was going to break.
I think Joey did go to the apartment first and talked to Egg before I arrived. I think he said to Egg, “Did you know what Mia’s doing?”
And Egg said, “There’s nothing that Mia does that I don’t know about, whether or not she tells me...It’s her choice, Joey.” I don’t know, only now am I remembering this.
Then I called that boy and told him that I just spoke to Joey, that he just left. The boy was very angry too, “Did he hurt you? You know that he came here! In my house! Even talked to my parents! Putang ina niya bumalik siya dito! Subukan niya!” And I was just relieved that they didn’t see each other. I was trying to placate him, saying sorry because really it was just so messy.
He said, “You better be worth this Mia! You better be worth it!”
I hid at Ayn’s house for a day or so after that and she and I didn’t bathe until evening, had stuffed ourselves with dishes like liver steak, and scared ourselves into flinching and clutching each other’s arms (and forever traumatized by images of people facing walls) by watching movies like Blair Witch Project. [Beware of scary bitches who get scared from scary movies.] Then that boy came to get me and take me home. If the boy had his way he would have taken me to his home but I have too much of probinsyana values in me and the messy situation would just get messier.
There it was: I left Joey for him.
I comforted myself with the thought Joey deserved to be with someone, anyone unlike me. And I didn’t want to cheat on Joey, didn’t want to betray him that way as if I hadn’t betrayed him already by falling in love with another.
Funny, these little moral technicalities that one would think would make something less worse.
And I fell in love, just like that, because that boy could get me to talk and for whatever else reason that I write in this and that text and I still can’t put into words. Maybe it was the summer weather. But really, when boys like him want someone or something, they get it (and once they get it, they don’t know what to do with it).
The girls, like Bonstara, used to tease me about him because I would actually blush and laugh a lot when I was with him. I was especially not the blushing and laughing type at that time. Definitely in love.
And he tried in the relationship, knowing that he was following and had to fill Jesus-Christ-footsteps. Jesus Christ: that’s what that boy would call Joey. In 2005, I said to him that I found a friend who was as kind as Joey. He said, “No shit? What? He lived 2000 years ago and was nailed to a cross too?” But most of our friends were against him, of course my family was against my being with him, he was also recovering from a break-up and so was I (besides recovering from being crazy and that’s something that one may never even recover from). All that in just a month.
That boy took me for a weekend in Puerto Galera with his friends. There, I finally became my-whatever-self again because I had enough of trying to prove that I was worthy of his love. In just a month. And at that time I had zero of these miraculous virtues they call PATIENCE and TOLERANCE (that people like me miraculously acquire because of living with people who are definitely as special or difficult as I am and because of teaching).
IMPATIENCE and INTOLERANCE:
After all the shit I’ve been through I have to put up with this shit too?!
You have got to be kidding me!
I just had enough of his taking out his manhood on me--- like I can’t even wear shorts because there was one time that on a stoplight, he got out of the car and had almost beaten this guy on a jeep because he said that the guy was looking at me. That temper. He always had a hand on me and I wasn’t used to that, that jealousy, that wanting to own that would make him pause while talking to someone to bite the skin on my shoulders. When Basha saw that one afternoon, he blinked. I never got used to those, having a normal relationship and doing what normal couples our age would do like go around a mall with your group of friends or just hang out in a house to play cards or video games.
Oh, and I made him feel stupid, he later said, “All the time.” Once we were talking on the phone and I just couldn’t take the way he was talking to me and his chatter about “me-myself-and-I-this-and-that” so I had rudely cut the call. He called back and shouted, “What planet are you from?!”I cut the call again. Or maybe his lion of an ego couldn’t take that I was smarter than he was. But I kept my silence and went all prim and proper and meek in that month.
He said one time, years later when he gave me a ride home, “When I’m in a car with you, I feel like I always need to drive faster.” He has always been a speed-freak and territorial about his car. But then again when we were still a couple he had allowed me to drive his car and I was speeding most of the time because everything seemed too slow. It must have been the tranquilizers or the ten-second-high that you get when you speed (or when you inhale that spray- that-numbs-a-sprain-from-a-towel).
So in Puerto Galera I had finally screamed at him, “ME, worth IT? If you think you can do all the shit that you’ve done to your ex-girlfriends TO ME then you’re with the wrong fucking bitch! YOU have to be worth IT!”
Then I had taken out this notebook of the poems Joey wrote for me from 1998 until just before I broke up with him in 2000. That notebook was the only thing I kept from all the things he returned to me-- gifts I gave him like ties that he had cut, torn books and pictures and letters, his gifts to me that I returned, anything of us torn and destroyed--- all in a sack he left outside our apartment. That notebook was the only thing left whole and I took it with me everywhere, reading what he wrote, reading how much he loves me. The boy knew that it was from Joey and that I kept it with me. That and the ring Joey gave me.
“This is what I gave up for you! I gave this, Joey, up for you!” Then I threw that into the sea. It was like both of us woke up. I had told him then that I would be there for him, always, that I would love him always but I could no longer be his girlfriend.
I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be and I couldn’t be as blank and without history as we all wished I would be.
And he begged, begging me, calling me by my nickname which made me listen, “Don’t leave me.” He never really forgave me for that and for singing Toni Braxton’s-- did you know I made him leave/ did you know he begged to stay/ with me/ he wasn’t man enough for me-- in his presence.
A day or so after we returned to Manila, I left for Naga with our housekeeper. He was supposed to take us to the bus station and I had called him. He said he was on his way. I waited 30 minutes, then an hour, then more, and then we only had 30 minutes before the bus left. I had called his mobile again. Funny, I still remember that number. How many times have I called that number in that month and not have my calls answered? He said he’s near but we were running out of time so the housekeeper and I left for the bus station. Did he even come?
After a week I called him to tell him when I would be coming back to Manila. He picked me up from the bus station at around 5 am and we went to a restaurant and talked. Guess what he was playing in the car during the drive? Celine Dion and he was the one so surprised that I knew the songs. [Beware of macho boys and men listening to Celine Dion and Sentimental Company.] I had told him, “My sisters listen to her.”
Later on, after, he said that he would find himself listening to my tape of “Marry Me Jane” which I left in his car. Or that he would listen to the songs I liked in Bazz’s Romeo and Juliet soundtrack (and no it’s not “Kissing You”).
He and I agreed to have a month apart to think and decide if we really wanted to be together, give us time to recover from our previous relationships. This is the part that the old man would always laugh and say, “Wrong move on his part. He should have kept you with him always.” I said that I would be there when he wants to see me. We agreed that after a month we would meet again and talk about what we decided.
I loved him and he loved me: that much I knew.
Now what to do with that love?
In that month apart, not once did he call or ask to see me. The old man says, “Wrong move again.”
In that month, I had shaved my head because I wanted to look like shit. Ma had gasped when she saw my shaved head. I had rubbed my head consciously and said, “Ma, it’s just hair. It will grow back.” Dad just shook his head and gave that smile that says “Crazy.”
I didn’t see him or talk to him in that month or the month after and then we finally saw each other again (for how could we not when we all called that bat cave, that abode of the damned our home in UP and it was June or July already). He and I tried to be cool, played at being cool about being in love and falling out of a relationship.
But he would always only stay for a moment in the tambayan, not really talking to me but looking at me, then leave. He would go the AS parking lot to his car. He would stop the car after the hump in front of the Faculty Centre. He would rev the engine. Then drive away with the tires screeching. Most of our friends would look at me after the sound of screeching had faded. What did the tires mean? Once he had taken the black bandana off my buzzed head and took it with him just when he was about to leave. Just like that. Too many of things like that—like not talking to me then taking out my best friend on what sounded like a date and then telling me about it. No explanations.
Then one afternoon, I called him just after he left and told him to come back, that I wanted to talk to him. He came back and asked “What?” I couldn’t talk so I flipped my Likhaan Anthology of Philippine Literature in English, the one with the violet cover and wrote on the last page I still_____ you.
I couldn’t even write that word: love. I didn’t know that that was what I was going to write. It was really only then that I realized that I loved him because love was always equals to Joey. I don’t even remember now if he ever said “I love you” or if we said that back to each other. I felt that he loved me when he would hold my hand when we were walking. Or that one time he went around and around Powerbooks, looking for something to give me because I wouldn’t accept anything from him. Or that he never exacted normal-couple-privileges like sex and had patiently tried to bring me pleasure.
Last night:
Joey said, “I think he really loved you. It’s just that he really didn’t know what he was getting into.”
It is the first time in 8 years that Joey and I really spoke of him.
When I think of that boy I smell sandalwood, California Scents and that little cherry lip balm. Ah, and that he allowed me to put nail polish on his nails and he used moisturizer and lotion and (god save me from) his favourite book “The Little (fucking) Prince.” Later on, after, he started reading more and I would give him books on his birthday like “The Alchemist”, wanting to dethrone The Little (fucking) Prince. And somewhere, there was a flash fiction text written entitled ‘The Little Prince and the Fox.’ I would always have a book for him on his birthday but I stopped giving them to him from 2003. In 2004, the book was “Necronomicon”.
When he saw what I wrote on the page, he stood up and walked away. Again the tires were screeching. I don’t know how long I sat there before I called his number. I don’t remember what I said, maybe I said I love you, maybe I want to come back, maybe Now what?
But I remember he said, loud music in the background, angry, “Nobody burns bridges the way you do Mia!” After all, by that time, he found out from people that I was already talking to and seeing Joey again.
Through the years, some say that he never talked about me, about his time with me. Some say he said that yeah, of course I fucked her. Some say he was fucking another girl when he was with me. Some say I fucked him up. I don’t know.
I know that I never really talked about him.
I know that he christened me the castrating-bitch-from-hell.
And through the years, the old man calls this kind of holy fucking shit:
Among-those-who-has-loved-and-loves-Mia-who-has-the-greatest-chance-in-taking-her-away-from-Joey?
“Because what could make you leave Joey?” the old man said, “Who could make you leave Joey?”
Because really, if someone falls in love or chooses to love me, that is the question.
Can anyone just love me even when I’m with Joey?
Can anyone stand loving someone you can’t all have for and to yourself?
To people, that boy holds that trophy because I loved him so much that I left Joey to be with him. And truly, when somebody tells me for the past ten years “I love you” or “I’m in love with you” knowing that I am already in a relationship with Joey, I don’t run away. But I am afraid that I might fall in love or love, too, not wanting to hurt Joey that way again.
I say, “Where would this love take you, us, me?”
Sometimes, I laugh when someone dares to tell me that he is in love or loves me because I find this one of the most courageous acts a male can make, knowing that one of my truest gifts in life is to cut off balls.
Loving me feels like someone is cutting off your balls.
Last night:
Joey had laughed, “I agree with what the old man said about the wrong moves.” Then he said, “I don’t feel that way. Someone would only feel that way if he thinks about his ego. And beh, I never asked if you were worthy of my love. It’s about if I’m worthy of your love.”
Then again we know this truth: it’s never a question of feeling love, it’s what you do with that love that matters, when it matters.
People have a hard time deciding whether someone is the luckiest or the unluckiest bastard alive (or dead) when you love me and I choose to love you. You can always ask and talk to those lucky or unlucky bastards yourself and you might be treated to very colourful language. But what for? And who really knows who they are?
April 10 (today or is it yesterday already?) was that day in Whistlestop in Tomas Morato at 7 am that he and I agreed to break up and to meet a month later. That boy said years later that he came to that place a month later to meet me. Or did he come at 5 am? I don’t know. You weren’t there, he said. I don’t know if he was telling me the truth.
By May 10 I thought he didn’t love me to begin with and that he didn’t want to be with me anymore because it was just too difficult.
Last night:
Joey said, “I do admire his courage. That took courage, to be with you at that time. That’s why I think he really loved you.”
And Egg has been saying to me for the past ten years until I was in KL, “Joey...he’s something else entirely.”
And always I laugh when people think and call him weak.
In that month that we were apart, the boy never said anything and never showed me anything. If he had, I would have been there at 5 until 7 am, until he came, and play out our own version of Love Affair. [And really, beware of macho boys and men listening to Celine Dion and Sentimental Company and loves Romantic Movies.]
Years later, I had teased that boy with, “I think you and I mistook affection for being in love. We were one of those who were meant to be friends but made the mistake of being more.”
In that month that we were apart, I never even thought of returning to Joey because such was his anger and hate at me.
Last night:
I told Joey, “If in that month that he and I were apart, if he had said something, did something, then really, I would have gone back to him. I would have and I would have never returned to you. ”
You see, love or loving is something that has to be shown to me constantly, relentlessly because even telling me “I love you” isn’t enough.
So that I believe love is good.
So that I stop thinking that “I love you” means you rape me, just like the first, second, and third time it was said to me.
Loving me would feel like I am castrating you.
Last night:
“That’s what they all said, in one way or another, in the end,” I said to Aoux.
And Aoux laughed, “Ayn Rand’s Fountainhead: when you love, you are willing to be destroyed.”
I laughed, “See? Castration!”
Aoux laughed, “And that’s why I’m not in a relationship now.”
The old man laughed, “Those fools don’t know how much you loved them. Jesus, you write about them. And then there are those you try and write about the most.” But then again, to most people, the old man has a fried brain.
And one of the things that Joey said to that boy’s parents when he went to that boy’s house that night that I saw him angry was: He doesn’t even have any idea how to love her.
Ten years now, Joey loves me and I love him.
Last night:
Aoux said, “Don’t you two feel that you’re limiting each other? Ten years!”
Joey said, “No.”
I smiled that smile Aoux said I have when I play, “Whoever said that I’m limited? Do you really think I’ve limited myself?”
Ten years of who-can-take-her-from-him-holy-fucking-shit.
Last night:
“What would make you leave Mia?” Aoux asked Joey.
Joey said something like “If she leaves me.”
Aoux didn’t ask me what would make me leave Joey. After all, he and I already know that “commitment” is loving and being with that the person and continuing to do so knowing that it will all end, knowing that you will lose the person, knowing that you will be destroyed. This is what I mean when I say “I love you”: I am willing to be destroyed by you. Are you willing to be castrated by me?
And Aoux said, “That’s your S&M vibe.”
I laughed, “Ah, but the submissive always has the power in that.”
There are bets on that, on who or what can make me leave Joey, the way there are bets on how long I could grow my hair, or when I would finally get married, or when I’m going to get pregnant. Aoux has his bet. Even the old man has his bet. There is waiting.
Sometimes, it’s just not worth it, Gnomie said when I had asked her about her loves and relationships. And sometimes it’s not what about what you’ve invested but a matter of if you’re willing to invest more.
And Basha immediately replied to my almost -slammed-into-an-18-wheeler-truck-message, “Almost is better than contact.” It made me laugh.
Is it?
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