It is hard and painful being at this state of singlehood especially when billboards around you advise you to wear pastel color underpants and you'll find “The One,” the love of your life. (Just to make sure, I did buy and wear one but still nothing happened.) It’s hard to take note of all the pick-up lines the primetime teleseryes invented with Sam Milby teaching you how to say “mahal kita” in full American twang.
It is difficult to hide in my khaki long sleeve polo, tight worn-out jeans and black leather Wrangel boots when everything in me yells about me being single. The furious red pimple on my right cheek, the sprawling stretch marks on my ass and the threatening nails of my feet rambling for a decent pedicure – all spelling out a single word: SINGLE.
I never really dated for no one could put up with a person like me. I would shamelessly write down our conversation in a damp piece of Starbucks tissue paper, lock eyes with you while reciting The History of the Kingdom of Negros and correct the use of "s" in your verbs. I'm afraid whenever the temperature would go low and I would have to constantly piss under the falling sky while consulting the half-eaten moon for its approval.
There's a revolution inside my personal nation and the uprisings focus on one main ancient issue - romance. My Executive Secretary insisted on buying a Porsche because it equates to being single. The only problem is that I've been scraping from a two hundred peso budget a day plus the elusive coins under my mattress and filthy drawers that I couldn't even afford a single orange.
Let me tell you why I’m writing about my singlehood. I write about me being single because if I don’t, I would turn mad. I write because I’m 23 and still single in a country going mad about love and I thought I should be part of that madness no matter what. I write because I’m protesting against God that I’m a virgin yet nobody finds me holy.
And because writing is all I can do. I don’t have bulging muscles to flex, no dashing smile to flash away or an 8-inch dick to fire you up on bed. I write to point out that I’m single, and always been, and it is pointless because I am binded by the letters of this world's pornographic standards, rejections and self-loathings within the twenty three years of my existential suspension.
I am single. I’m single in a community who constantly tells me that I am single. I’m single and I don’t wanna care anymore if my taxes would be spent for your condoms and whatever other things I’m not allowed to touch. I am single. I’m single and that gave me the authority to get drowned in Margaritas and Tequilas, kiss the doorman at the local pub and flirt with a Catholic deacon on his way to priesthood. And because I am single, I’m allowed to end this post without finality, although in the tradition of every literary piece, I have to provide some form of ending notwithstanding. And so to ending, of this post but not of singlehood, I give you three dots and a smiley in the hopes that it will haunt your living spirits from here on.
. . . =)