”The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” – Toulouse Lautrec, Moulin Rouge.
The artistic midget could never say it better in the movie than that but just like him, the statement is entirely fictional. That’s what I used to think until now. It’s still partial hogwash since the greatest thing I’ll ever learn is how an eight-legged mollusc never fails to control the destinies of football playing countries, I mean, predict the winners in the 2010 World Cup accurately 8 times in a row.
Yes, it’s a nice thing to love and to be loved in return. But 90% of the time, I let myself get bulldozed by infatuation for the beautiful people living in my head and cyberspace (Refer to entry ‘Missed Target‘). I’d like to play the game of romance but haven’t gotten anywhere near the finals yet (i.e. birds and bees). And since no game lasts forever, I cultivated a healthy cynicism towards love and marriage. All I’m waiting for now is the One with the right qualities and natural abilities who can complement my perfect flaws and quirks. Any gender or race or creed is fine as long as there’s mutual consent (although I’ve developed a taste for non-con through a steady diet of BL, joking). If all else fails, there’s still ”me” to last a lifetime. Sigh, if only I can replicate another me. I envy Henry in ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’ …
Then what of the 10%? I enjoyed the thrill of the chase during my love-blinded exploits. From the joy of speaking with the target and learning about his/her life (i.e. through stalking) to the bitter sweet ache of waiting for the target’s arrival. Unfortunately, it seems what goes around comes around. In fact, I feel sorry from the bottom of my heart for even having a crush on them thanks to my overactive pituitary gland.
Based on my narcissistic deduction, I believe a person had (note: past tense, better stay that way) a crush on me in Paradiso di servizio civile.
In the 1st month, I was impressed by his attentiveness and genteel manner to everyone. My tumbler magically filled itself up, lunch invitations and even free porter service to the MRT. Then things take on a turn for the ‘better’. I usually like to end off lunch with a healthy dessert option, like fruit or yogurt. One fine afternoon, he asked me what flavor I prefer for yogurt. I typed my reply ‘Strawberry’ (I wish I can have Strawberry Yazima chan in my yogurt wwwwwストロベリーおいしそうｗ). The next day, a strawberry yogurt cup appeared on my desk. And the day after, another yogurt cup. And the day after… … I wished I’d replied ‘999K gold bars’ or ‘10,000-Japanese yen note’.
The yogurt cup did not come with a spoon. Without a utensil to consume the item with decency, I would dispense the item into the fridge on my way out of the office. The effort of having to walk to the pantry to take a spoon and cover the same distance twice just to consume the yogurt outweighs the perceived benefits of improving bowel movements. My dad did a great job in raising me into a perfectly useless, maid-dependent adult where I would die of starvation if not fed by hand. Soon, the fridge was filled with strawberry yogurt cups.
He saw that the fridge was bursting at its seams with yogurt cups and he asked me whether I’ve been chucking the lot of ’em inside. I gave him the affirmative and told him he could have them or share it with the others. He said the yogurt is meant for me and no one else. He seemed mortified when I suggested that he should share it with our lovely colleagues otherwise the fridge is going to turn into a cheese factory. Thankfully, he distributed the yogurt cups to everyone and the girls seemed really happy by his sweet gesture.
And from then on, the yogurt cup never made its appearance on my desk again. The end.
In my opinion, romantic love or the perception of being in love is always unsettling because the pervert+hormones=pheromones make the loudest noise
(There is a reason why God made me a woman instead of a man. So I won’t get charged for rape or something along that line for succumbing to the moans of nature, snigger). And when the vuvuzela of romance starts to sputter, the whitewash fades and the horrors of drab, ugly reality rears its head to greet you ‘Good Mourning’.
I believe that a relationship cannot be constructed synthetically with money or other material inputs like foodstuffs, it has to be cultivated with care and wisdom, putting in the right words and actions at the right time.
Yes, even something morally agreeable can come out of a filthy, sex-infested mind like mine. I love you, ME.