FUBARgenre: The Genre of Fubar

I am not one to defend myself, but this time, I dare to take an exception. I mean, for crying out loud, my family reads this blog! I took a chance (braving potential scorn) by publishing Jojo’s misguided 10 things about me. But after obsessing about it (just ask Gen), I feel that I owe myself a little self-serving rant.

(Plus, I also realized that barely 24 hours after writing my 10 things about Jojo, I can no longer stand the sight of his picture on top of my blog. Hence, this post.)

I said nothing when Mark so wrongly accused me of snoring. Hello, how can he hear me snore when he always sleeps before I do? (ignore the hint of resentment here) And who on earth can hear a single squeak on top of the monstrous sounds he makes in bed? (Er, that didn’t sound right. But you know what I mean.) Still, I said nothing.

When Mark unfairly referred to me as a weird, neurotic, high-strung, obsessive control freak, you think that didn’t sting? Of course, it did! Still, I said nothing.

But this line…this line really got me going:

…against all wet and slimy odds, defying common sense, forgetting everything she stood for, ignoring expert friendly advice, she blurts out “but I want more!” (referring to him-who-must-not-be-named) in drunken madness, barely able to stand, with tears, slime, vomit, and bitterness all over her.

Okay, first of all, I wasn’t drenched in slime and vomit. Tears and bitterness? Okay, I’ll give you that. But definitely not slime and vomit. Had I been that filthy, as Jojo so vividly describes me, how could he have found the stomach to hug me and calm me down?

Yes, Jo, I remember it so well. You hugging me tightly (as if preventing me from plunging into my own personal hell), your voice commanding me to “focus, focus, focus!” All of you crowding around me, shaking me, willing me to stop bawling. Someone pushing me into a cab and…wait, that’s all I remember. Pfft. There goes the last shred of dignity I had left.

Anyway, don’t we all laugh about it now? And isn’t this one of those things that we agreed not to discuss anymore? Sort of like that incident when you (uhm) d*f*c*t*d in someone else’s car?

Repeat after me: “I was drunk, dammit!” (hurray, disclaimer!)

Okay, I’ll overlook that slight exaggeration this time. Let’s call it poetic license and leave it at that. …Still, Jo? Slime and vomit? (I sure hope someone would still hire me after this. FYI, potential clients: I have changed so much since those wanton days, honest! I no longer get drunk in bars. )

But moving on. I forgive you, Jo. But only because I’ve done worse things that you discretely didn’t mention here. heh.

However, I do take offense at the following statement. Surely, you must know that this is so not true:

“She abhors him and it (referring to number 1) now with gusto (all the necessary facial expressions and gestures included) thinking she will be redeemed from that dastardly act. Sometimes, she has attacks of amnesia. The very selective kind.”

I do not hate him. In fact, we are friends. Two years ago, I so warmly welcomed him into our old condo, where he spent an entire afternoon just hanging out with me and Mark (weren’t you there, Gen and Bon? You did witness that, didn’t you?).

And, Jo, wasn’t it just this year when we had dinner together in Manila? Didn’t we spend an entire evening reminiscing about the past with no less than the guy I supposedly abhor? If my memory serves me right, we even greeted the dawn together – laughing and jesting like the friends that we are.

You see, there is absolutely no bitterness between us. None whatsoever.

Yes, Jo. We are friends. Repeat after me: “We are all friends.”

Thank you.

No, I am not bitching. This may sound a little maldita, but this is not me bitching. Trust me, you’d know when I’m bitching. (Have you ever seen me bitch, Jo?)

It’s just that…it’s just that…you brought up long-repressed memories that, when occasionally stirred up, still make me gag.

I cringe to think that my sister will finally realize just how big a loser I was. Especially since I just loooove to sit on my high horse when lecturing her about men. (Cringe, cringe, cringe.) How am I supposed to convince her that I’m still the perfectly rational and intelligent queen-of-the-world that she thinks I am? (Xy, I really am. Honest! )

That being said, I also want to thank you, Jo. Thank you for bringing this up. Finally, I have an excuse to explain my side of the story.

The guy that Jojo thinks still keeps me awake at night is our friend. Part of the barkada. One of the gang.

For some reason, I fancied myself in love with him. No, scratch that. I fancied myself so hopelessly and deeply in love with him that I spent my early university years being miserable.

He was my first. In more ways than one.

And I couldn’t make him love me.

And it was painful.

No, it was pitiful.

But years after the pain subsided, when the wounds started to heal, when other men provided earthly distractions, I realized that the person I was so insanely in love with did not exist. I was not in love with the man, but merely with the idea of the man.

Perhaps it was more painful for me to face the fact that I wasted years fixating on an idea. A mere concept. An intangible, nonexistent fragment of my imagination.

How pathetic is that?

But to reiterate: I do not hate him. I do not even resent him for not being the man I thought (hoped?) he was.

What I really hate – abhor to the depths of my soul – is the person that I was. That pathetic, spineless creature. God, how I hate her.

To be completely honest, my greatest fear is to see my sister walk down that same road.

Langga, my beloved baby Xyzha, this is why I’m overly protective of you. If you resent me a little because I sometimes care too much, I apologize. But now you know why.

Phew. I’m glad that’s over. I know there’s no way to reclaim my dignity now, but as one guru (who’s celebrating his 40th birthday tomorrow, by the way) puts it, “Such is life.”

Such is life, indeed.

Since I’m here anyway, let me just address a few minor peeves:

• Jo, we are getting married. For real this time. I have no choice, really. (Just kidding. I love you, Baby!) You can blame me for all those “false alarms” in the past. You know me – so fickle, so commitment phobic, so terrified of…well, the whole concept of eternity (“till death do us part” sounds too ominous, don’t you think?). Thank God for Mark. He has been so patient with me. I cannot ask for anything more. Truth is, I don’t really know what I did to deserve him.
• I do not get paid more than the rest of you. Whatever gave you that idea?
• Yes, I wanted to be a lawyer. But so did you. Life happens when we’re busy making other plans. (Flashback to 2002. I was in Manila for some minor business thing, I think. Or was it mainly for pleasure? Anyway, I don’t know what spurred the conversation, but I remember asking you: “Jo, I thought we’re going to be lawyers? When are you applying for law school?” Your response: “Yan, only when the system changes.” I rest my case.)

But you did make me think about my life. And not in a good way, too. These are thoughts that I’d rather reserve for one of those monthly neurotic episodes that Gen and Mark so tactfully pointed out. But now, these thoughts are intruding on one of my rare lucid moments. This is really not a good time for me to think about my “issues”, you know.

Am I really happy?

What do I really want?

Do I really know where I’m heading?

Do I really want to know where I’m heading?

Does my life have meaning?

What is meaning, anyway?

Is it something that you need to seek outside yourself?

Or is it something that you create within yourself?

What is the self? What is my concept of self?

Why am I talking to myself?

Damn it, Jo. Only you can do this to me.

You know what? Mark’s right. I am a weird, neurotic, high-strung, obsessive control freak!

Happy birthday, Gen! Happy birthday, Manoi Wat!

And, Jo, I still think the world of you.

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