<img src="http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v191/tsaki/523f197b.bmp">

my friend luv tells me, you're the breaker, not the breakee. you have no right to wallow.

but i will anyway.

so i stay under the sheets, bangag from a combo of cheap wine, san mig light, mule, and the break-up of a 4+ relationship that ended with a truly weak wheeze. friends call (it's amazing how the grapevine works), asking are you okay? so much i want to go apeshit already. i'm fiiiiine, i tell them. no, you're not, they argue. you sound bad. sick even. uh huh. right. it's called a HANGOVER. now shoo so i can go back to huddling underneath the pink blanket he gave me for christmas.

see, the way i see it, wallowing is good. therapuetic, even. i mean, face it. when we go watch movies, don't we just love it when someone's shit hits the fan? don't we feel for the hero(ine) more when something goes truly truly wrong, and she's on her knees, shaking her fists against the sky, going, why, god, whyyyyyy?

or maybe i'm just a repressed drama queen, i don't know.

however, there is only so much feeling sorry for yourself that anyone can safely indulge in. it gets old after a while. by the time 8pm came rolling along, i couldn't take it anymore. i had to get out. do something, preferably with more alcohol.

so i grab my phone, text pest, who i'd been in contact with ever since the wallowing commenced. what ya doing? nothing? good. pick my sorry ass up. i want to drink some more.

he replies with something about how he was supposed to have bootie call that night, and the choice between hanging with a sad whiny angry girl or a writhing nekkid chick was such a tough decision to make. men talaga. *sigh*

to his credit, pest shows up for me, willingly, without any blackmailing or wheedling on my part. he's a good ex, that one. naturally he gripes about the bootie he's missing and the distance between my place and his (45 kms), but that's okay. he grumbles a lot. and besides, someone had to get the ranting for the night started.

funny thing about last night. what was meant to be a dissection of my failed relationship (complete with the fist shaking and why-god-whyyyyy) turned into a much better night that i expected it to be. he didn't ask me any are you okay's?, what are you going to do's? and are you sure this is what you really want's? because, a.) i was still alive, b.) i obviously wanted to drink, and c.) of course this is what i want. i asked for it, didn't i?

the thing is, when a breakup happens, you can't analyze it too much. it's over. it's ended. you can say, oh, i should have done this, i should have done that. shoulda woulda coulda, the list can go on and on and on. but the reality of the situation is, unless you can still do something about it, there's no use in getting all hypothetical cause it won't help. like i said, wallowing is good, but only to a point. wallow, and then pick yourself up.

and that was what last night was about. sure, i griped some (a lot, actually). but i also laughed, checked other women out (yes, i realize i'm straight, but damn, that girl across our table had huge knockers for her frame) and enjoyed the company of a very good friend who pulled through for me in a way i didn't expect him to. and towards the end, just as he was about to bring me home, he turns to me and asks, will you be fine?

yes, i believe so. am sunshine supergirl, remember? of course i will be.

* tsakiwaki made kwento @ 12/31/2003 02:45:00 PM