Dear Stella,
Well, today the world is inexorably evil; I suppose tomorrow it will be better.
-- Eugene Ginsberg
Stuck as I am here in Quezon, the possibility of existential conversation is close to none. Lately, I am feeling urge to take flight again, but the pull of responsibility is yet too strong. I have work to do here for the family and I've spent too much time in my youth trying to ignore them that I don't have it in me to disappoint them of their expectations of me one more time. In the end, I would have to make do with occasional visits there for last minute patches to my psyche. Thanks, by the way, for doing just that when I was there last. You gave me a better perspective of my current rut, with an extremely large helping of a much-needed Grapes and Greens to boot. You cannot imagine how thankful I am.
And upon your urging (inferred quasi-permission at that), I finally made the jump and rode the summer fling bandwagon. Unfortunately, the subsequent event only strengthened my resolve not to do one-night stands. But "do," I did. And it left me an even bigger vacuum, both emotionally and sexually, perhaps psychologically even. It wasn't as tragic as a trauma from the past, mind you. It was just plain uncomfortable, for lack of a better term. There I was, naked in bed, restless as hell, and deeply uneasy while the brute beside me snores in complete satisfaction. I had nothing to say for myself at that moment except I should have known better. Then again, I just commiteed the supreme act of self-censorship when I deleted a comment on the guy's physically features. It's just that he was really kind and honest, albeit a "top." So what exactly was I expecting? A little consideration perhaps. I mean, he should at least have been concerned by the fact that I did not come. But no. He slept. Then I paid for the room. Now, why does this sound all too familiar?
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