About 8 years ago, me and my friend Selda and had a bet. Whoever gets to have a boyfriend first will treat the other to dinner- wherever she wants to eat and whatever she wants to order from the menu. Up until about 2nd year college, we were both like “Dude! You’ll treat me first, I know!” “Dear gawd, no way! You’d be first!”

Years passed by and just before we graduated, the conversation evolved to “Hmm… I wonder who will win.” “Oh yeah, why is it taking so long?”

Well, we eventually started working, learned how to go out and party and became occupied with our careers that we’d sometimes catch ourselves talking and saying “DUDE. WTF. Can I treat you already?” “Inoeryt? I have lots of moolah now. I don’t want to win this shit.”

It is sad, yes. I mean, if our bet was a person, it’d be in grade two by now.

I have a few goals that I absolutely must work on this year or I’ll be really really disappointed with myself.

1. Become fit.

You don’t even understand. Besides my “love handles”, I’m starting to notice the fat accumulating under my chin and it makes me really, really sad. My bosses have been bugging me to work-out and guess what, I think I may have to start soon. And because I won’t be caught dead in those gym machines, I’m thinking of enrolling in hiphop or jazz classes because 1) gasping for air panting by the time I cross to the other side of the huge-ass MMDA footbridge at Q.Ave is rather depressing and 2) dancing in clubs while I’m drunk does not equate to working-out.

I was never a poet. I mean, one can probably argue that poetry, much like beauty is subjective and blah blah but really, I kind of have given up on writing poems. Primarily because I knew it wasn’t my forte and hence, I should but channel my energy on things I’m good at and secondarily, well, there’s no secondarily.

Just before I graduated from school, I attempted to have one of my poems published. The editor in chief of the anthology (or whatever writers call them) was a very good friend of mine, like a really really good friend but my knees shook and my hands perspired as I submitted my work.

“Read it to me.”, said my friend.

“WHAT? NOOOOO! I’m scared.”, I answered flamboyantly. I must’ve even flailed.

“Scared of what? C’mon, bitch. Do it.”

After I had read my piece, the said friend put her hand on my shoulder, sighed and explained that ‘it’s just a tad too dramatic.’

“Kring, I could pretty much imagine the persona with her long, red nails, posed as if she’s on the verge of fainting, awaiting a knight-in-shining-armor on a white horse to rescue her. Keep your poetry simple.”

And with that, she smiled, patted me on the back and showed me her freshly written Weiss Kreuz yaoi fanfics. True story.