it seems that the hip thing to rant about is love. love. it was able to bring down a great kingdom (i've seen troy twice--i will never have a boyfriend because i'm devoted to orlando bloom. one day i will wake up and set eyes on his socks lying on my bedroom floor, right next to my shorts.); i have no morsel of qualm that it will be able to bring down great individuals.
i was just with my good friends, nika and missy, as well as my sweet sister. (i have two sisters. sister no. 1 is the sweet one, no. 2 took after my groove.) we were in pearl drive and as we were stuffing burgers down our guts, missy's ex-boyfriend passed by. we are talking about an ex-child star of yagit calibre here, and missy has this strongest conviction (superlative totally nessecary) that her list of exes is contaminated with a name spelled in bold glittery pink letters. this guy is the corporal equivalent of that name, but this is beside the point. however, the prospect that the guy he was with could be a date kinda pegged the second to the last nail on the casket of our love karmas. since we took a turn towards the avenue of exes, love boulevard couldn't be far off. and yes. the crucial rotunda swerved us into this long, yet narrow street as nika brought "having someone" up.
and i ask: why do people suddenly need one person in particular nowadays? has the idea of the emotional orgy been phased out along with the spandex speedos?
nika: it's been raining again.
and now i ponder on this. could it be that love hovers about the collective cultural psyche, and changes its face according to the pictures we see in everyday life? lets take a look at these images: an open beach--arms stretching on the sand, waters falling off the edge of one's vantage vis-a-vis the handle of an umbrella sticking right through the sight of a drenched city street. the hall--its bay windows wide open to let the breze in, needed to combat the sun's ultraviolet menace burrowing into our epidermis even when under a nice insulated ceiling versus a room musty with closed windows and nippy, damp yet stagnant air hanging above one as he/she snuggles in a sweatshirt.
when it's summer, everyone thinks of flings. it's all about getting yourself out there where prospects will hopefully swarm you like a lone egg cell amidst raging sperms. you will not be tied down to the house, you will not be seen in a small crowd. you will do alone-things in a nice, open place. the world is large, and you should be at large.
but once the nimbus clouds take custody of the sky, it's suddenly all about staying indoors, and it's about having someone stuck inside with you, to sit with you as you watch your newly washed car accumulate beads of dirt from the rain that passes through that goddam santol tree before it finally rapes the smooth turtle wax finish. it's all about having one person you have the absolute and rightful right to text when you're bored and all the stations are airing reruns. it's all about an eternal rerun of one particular person.
then again, i'm a boy. i really am. so i stare at my palm. there you go. love.
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