FUBARgenre: The Genre of Fubar

Girl power would be more appropriate if we were…say, girls. Sadly, we are not. Oh, biology would insist that we have the necessary tools. But reason dictates otherwise. There is nothing girly about Bonita and Genee, though the former can wear an all-too-femme mask when the need arises, and the latter can go oh-so-insanely-kikay around a certain person. Ahem. (And I quote: “So what? I’m fabulous!”)

Bon (that cunning, manipulative bitch) left us in July of this year, barely giving us a week’s notice, giving us (or rather, me) no time to adjust to the idea of her departure. Cebu has been a lot quieter without her frenzied monologues (why me?), her off-pitch shrieks, her oddly-timed visits (even the ghosts in our house have a more definite haunting schedule), and her insistence that she can rule the world with her singing. Ahh, Bon and her singing. Let’s not go there. Did I say that Cebu has been a lot quieter? Well, it’s a silence that I can definitely live with. Heh. Just kidding. The truth is, Cebu is boring without Bonita. Even Gen and I, for all our loud banters and crazy antics and food haunts and occasional bouts of sensible musings (sensible? really? when?), often catch ourselves staring off into space — strangely longing for the annoying sound of Bonita’s laughter. Ahh, Bonita. She comes on too strong, like a bottle of decadent wine finely aged for decades, but delectable and addictive once you’ve acquired the taste. Ahh, Bonita. She is intoxicating, that woman. When she left, there was a hole in our lives that no amount of beer could fill. (trust me, we tried.)

And so, there were two. An odd pair, we made. One, a jaded alpha female who dared everyone to challenge the perfection that is her world. The other, a whimsical dreamer who couldn’t get her head out of the clouds. But we made it work — the bitching that comes with the job, the self-absorbed ranting that is our salvation, the chismiss that adds color to our otherwise dull reality.

Odd that I would call Bon a cunning, manipulative bitch. And odder still that I refuse to call Gen the same. One would almost say that I got those two mixed up. But you see, Genee wears her horns proudly, wearing the bitch label on a silver pendant (literally) around her neck. Unlike seemingly timid Bons who pounces at only the most perfectly timed kill, Genee has no claws to bare, for her talons are fabulously displayed on her manicured nails (the only part of her that’s dainty, she always says). If Bon is the cunning, manipulative type, Gen is the brazen queen of bitchdom. Queen, huh? She’d tell you, with eyebrows raised, with a single sweeping hair flip to boot, that the appropriate word is goddess. Don’t be fooled, though. For it is all but an act. Beneath that rough exterior lies a sappy marshmallow river. And only the valiant soul who braves her thorns can ever taste the sweetness that is her rose. In more ways than one. But then again, I’m mixing my metaphors. Gen, writer that she is, hates metaphors and euphemisms. If you want a straight answer minus the sugar coating, go to Genee. She’s a magic ball with only two answers — yes and no. If you want anything in between, go to Bon. Oh, wait. She, too, can be so painfully honest, that one. You should come to me instead. Heheh.

Ahh, then we come to me. When Gen moves to Manila next month, I’d be all that’s left. And it’s funny how that scares me. It’s funny how I fear that I may not recover. It’s funny how I want to slow down time and go all Hiro Nakamura on the world. And it’s funny how I used the word funny in this paragraph.

But there’s nothing funny about the way I actually dread solitude. Without the three fates, the moirae, I’m afraid I’m just this blah person struggling with her blah existence. Blah, blah, blah.

Oh, Gen and Bon, what will I do without you?

This week’s Scrubs episode was about moving on and growing up. How can a sitcom like Scrubs jolt me? Pathetic, huh? But jolt me, it did, prompting me to IM Gen:

Yan: Gen, I have a question.
Gen: (no response)
Yan: Are you lolo-ing again?
Gen: No. why?
Yan: That’s not my question.
Gen: Hahahahah. Funny how we think that’s a legitimate question.
Yan: Do you think I need to grow up?
Gen: Well, we all need to do some growing up of our own.
Yan: Yeah.
Yan: But…but…but…
Yan: I don’t want to grow up!
Gen: Bwahahaha. Who does?
Yan: We’re perfect the way we are, right?
Gen: Of course! I’m fabulous!

…And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I need to grow up.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been going through this delayed quarter life crisis thing. And how pathetic that instead of looking ahead, I’ve been dwelling on the past. Wanting to regress. Itching to feel safe.

And maybe this is a good thing. Gen leaving, I mean.

Finally, for the first time, I’d be forced to confront who I really am. Me minus the triad. Me cut off from the only world I know. I’d be forced to nurture the one part of the moirae that I don’t particularly like — myself.

Yeah, this is a good thing.

.

I wonder how long I’ll last.

.

(long enough to gather my bearings and follow Gen, I suppose…waaah…what’s my point again?)

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