Ah...Nathaniel...

Cora Munro: What are you looking at, sir?
Nathaniel Poe: I'm looking at you, miss...



*sigh*


(From the movie Last of the Mohicans)

To My Landlady

"I don't like kids. I didn't even like kids when I was a kid."
                                                          
                                                                         - Daria Morgendorffer

Govind. Infidel.

Well hell, it’s confirmed: Govind Armstrong is friggin’ ENGAGED!

As if I needed another grief in my life. What with reviews, impending bankruptcy and other random shit that I had to deal with everyday, not to mention a giant gaping wound on my index finger which I almost accidentally chopped off the other night. The result of which made my left hand a bit useless---I can’t hold a fucking pen. If you’re planning to draw for a living, you’d need fingers and be able to grip them.

I don’t know what his girlfriend looked like but I’m guessing she won’t be fat and depressed. She won’t ever have problems of an empty LPG, electric bills and taxi fares. Govind would drive the lucky ho everywhere. I would also guess she doesn’t gorge on Doritos, M & M’s and Coke for lunch. She would be too dignified for that. I doubt the sexy(even if he's an infidel) chef would allow his precious lady love to eat shit like that.

*Starts looking for a bag of Cheetos*

The Letter That Never Was (Hint: Chickened Out)

Dear Paul,

You are an asshole.

But I like you anyway. Sincerely. I have liked you for ten years now. I’ve kept it as a secret for that long too. Considering the fact that I’m not one of those quiet, mysterious girls you seem to like so much, you would concede that this is no small feat. Especially since every time you see me, I’m running my mouth. That was just an accident. I really tried to be one of those girls so you would notice that I’m capable of change. I failed, of course, as expected. Being mysterious was incredible hard work. All it gave me was a headache and a stiff neck. Guess, I’ll never be the girl you want.

But then, this is me. I’ll just ignore that fact and get on with my life.

Now that I’ve let that out of my system, let me move along with this letter. I’d like to clear up some misconceptions you have of me since we first met.

Remember the time you passed by me in the stairwell and I was talking to a friend of mine and you yelled for me to ‘shut up!’? I was so surprised that I DID shut up. I want you to know that I considered punching you twice in the mouth and once on the nose if you weren’t so goddamned tall, as I simultaneously fiercely kick your shins and push you down the stairs. Then I noticed you were wearing your old worn out Levi’s. I always thought you looked gorgeous in Levi’s. Well, your ass, to be precise, but we’re not talking specifics. Anyway, I was temporarily blindsided and before I know it, you’re already on the fourth floor, my eyes still pathetically following the sight of your ass.

By the way, this letter is not an elaborate joke/prank designed solely to humiliate you. In fact, if there’s anyone who’s going to be humiliated by this letter, it would probably be me when you suddenly decide to be your usual bastard self and post this as a bulletin on Friendster. I mean, hell, ten years of deluding myself with you is no friggin’ joke! It IS absurd, yes, but it’s no joke. Ten years may just be two words, dude, but it’s a hell of a long time.

And no, I am not in love with your brother, even if he is such a fine specimen of a man and a great deal nicer than you’ll ever be--- and even when I told everyone I liked him. I just told everyone that piece of lie because, well, it seemed like such a good idea at that time. I mean, everyone thought I was a lesbian (including my mother) and your brother was there, tall and shirtless, the tattoo on the middle of his shoulder blades gleaming of sweat, playing basketball, and I thought: There’s my guy. So I told everyone. I’ve never thought that this would irritate you. This even made you hostile. I apologize for that. Insincerely, but I apologize nonetheless. You wouldn’t expect anything less from me, I know.

You love your brother and you are protective of him, I understand, but dude, YOU HAVE GOT TO GET A GRIP! Your ELDER brother is six-foot-one of lean muscles and with a black-belt in AIKIDO. I’m pretty sure he could take on a five-foot-three uncoordinated lump of lard, who wheezes at any form of exertion, never exercises and excels only in being a couch potato that is me, should I suddenly decide to lose my virginity and take his unsullied virtue in a dark alley one night. Get real.

Seriously, stop treating him like a fucking delicate Dresden Doll. You are allowed to imagine me rolling my eyes at your ridiculousness because the very thought of your hard assed brother as someone fragile just makes me want to gag. But enough about your brother.

Why do I like you, you ask?

Well, my heart starts to beat faster whenever you’re around. This, of course, might just be because you remind me of Satan.

I Kid. Maybe.

Anyway, I don’t know. You are rude and you seem to hate people (me particularly). You are cold and unfeeling. I’m tired of telling my friends I hate you and that you are the spawn of Satan—well, maybe you are, but I don’t care. I liked you anyway. There’s no use denying it. I think I can tell you exactly when it happened:

I woke up one morning from a dream while I was confined in the hospital --that you dragged my hospital bed to the school gym so I could watch a basketball game, dextrose and all. That was so sweet that I KNEW it was just a dream. I mean, is the son of Lucifer capable of doing such selfless and sweet thing? Hell to the N-O.

I guess you just grew on me. Or maybe there was just something about a guy who can give a mean uppercut. Or that it adds gorgeous points when you’re dressed and looked like a bad ass and yet you’re carrying an “Ibon Adarna” costume while you’re following your little sister to her school program. Or you let your older brother punch you at the middle of the basketball court, in full view of all and sundry and yet you didn’t fight back. Even if you knew you could take him on because you’ve gone black belt before he did. Not to mention a great deal of experience in brawling.

Or maybe just because I think you’re hot.

All wrong and a GIGANTIC ASSHOLE to boot, but hot.

Anyway, I had this sneaky feeling that you liked my best friend, because, well, she’s as tall as you, pretty to boot and she looks mysterious. Everything I’m not, right? I couldn’t appear mysterious if my life depended on it. Well, guess what? She’s the one who really liked your brother, not me. I was just along for the ride. This is just a conjecture on my part, okay? I didn’t say it was carved in stone somewhere so if none of this is true, please feel free to ignore it.

I have no ulterior motives for this letter. I just wanted you to know all this because I’m tired of your sneers, dagger-looks, and goddess knew what else. And yeah, denying.

I JUST WANT THIS FESTERING HATE OF YOURS TO END. WANT TO SLAP ME WITH A GLOVE AND CHALLENGE ME TO A DUEL? FINE. I’LL BE WAITING.

Always,

Pines

P.S.

Don’t wear your worn out Levi’s. It has been known to distract me from time to time.

### This letter will never see the light. Written during one of my darkest moments (Hint: ran out of coffee). This will probably earn me a bruise or two from the Son of Hades. Or not. He may not hit women, but I’ll never know…nor do I intend to find out. I think Heathcliff is to blame for this situation when Lola made me read Wuthering Heights when I was a kid. He is the pattern for most of my Objects of Delusion— dark, brooding and passionate with a “hellish soul”. Which would explain my fascination for that demon in Levi’s. *sigh*

Unrequited love is so bloody inconvenient.