Bedroom Stories

My bedroom looks the same.

It still looks like how I left it four years ago as I packed my bags, off to college. It is still colored mint green, like the whole house. It‘s still the same bed. Which, interestingly, was my grandmother‘s deathbed. (I love antiques and bad memories.) The corner cabinet is still on the corner, holding the same ornaments, souvenirs and random gifts I have carelessy put on it. The teddy bear my first girlfriend gave me is still here. The teddy bear my first boyfriend gave me is also still here. They have remained unwashed, unnamed, unhugged. The glow-in-the-dark sticker still remained plastered beside the lamp switch. And it still glows, almost fifteen years since I glued it there. The bedroom door still holds a 2008 calendar, superimposed into another one dated December 2000. The old electric fan is still here, providing me the same old tune that put me to sleep.

My bedroom looks the same. Except that, it wasn‘t.

My antique wardrobe closet is gone. Where it used to be now stands a new cabinet, with sliding doors and a distinct mahogany tone. I don‘t use it. Mainly because I can‘t fit inside it. My bedroom wall is now blank; the horse painting that used to hang there, gone. All that remain are the faint outlines of the canvass and a few scrathes. No more monsters under my bed, only shoeboxes of aged letters and stationery sit on the floor. I miss the monsters. I‘ll probably burn the love letters tomorrow to make room for them. My room is now devoid of any mirrors. I like this because I‘m afraid of mirrors. My books are still perched on top of each other. Except that I don‘t remember reading them anymore.

My bedroom looks the same. Except that it was not.

Because I was not.

I was seventeen when I came out to my parents. It was painful to look how devastated my father was. It was unpleasant to watch my mother wait for me to take back that validation. Of course they knew. Parents know. Probably even before I, myself, knew. I never wanted to break their hearts and their dreams of having cuddly grandchildren in the future. But I had to. I owe it to them. Their only son, their firstborn had to. They deserve to know that their dreams are not coming true. And they deserve to know that it’s not their fault I am gay. That they did a good job bringing me up. It’s just that we all have our choices of who to become, and I chose what I am, because that’s what I am. Now that’s something I owe myself.

They said, it’s okay. It’s fine. I’m still cute and handsome I can make a girl fall hard for my looks and I still have my balls I still can have kids. But I know it wasn’t okay. Especially dad. Most especially dad.

People say I’m brave. But I was not. I was only becoming my parents’ son. Did I think of the consequences, i.e. rejection, banishment, disappointment? Of course I did. I still do. But I’m lucky to have parents who, despite my mom’s superstitious and conservative upbringing and my dad’s stern and sometimes heartless house rules, love me for who I am. Not every gay seventeen-year-old can be that lucky.

Everyday, I bring the burden of their shattered dreams, always cutting me deep down. Everyday, I live as a disappointment. Everyday, I wish I was better. I wish I was straight.

Let me take this time to thank you, dear followers, for I have now three hundred of you. I have been blogging for three years now and I have actually thought that I will never reach this plateau. I am laughing so hard now as I write this. Because, yes, it took me three fucking years what more good-looking ‘bloggers‘ could have accomplished in three months.

To my three hundred followers, I don‘t know why you keep on liking, reading my posts. But I‘m glad you are. And thank you. And to those chosen few who I actually ‘talk‘ to, hello. Thank you for the friendship. Please never unfollow me. Or else I‘ll send you dog poop mails.

This is where I should be writing, I love my followers. But since only ~famous~ ones do that and I am not one, no, I don‘t love you.

But come on, you know I do.

Free kisses, anyone?

Special thanks to my three-hundredth follower, akoaymachopalito. Okay, I don‘t really like your URL but since you‘re special, I‘ll be a lot kinder to you. Now, would you like a kiss?

If you choose to stay inside your closet, stay there and don‘t peek.

I hold no grudge over men who choose to not come out. Because I know the consequences of it. (And I call them men, yes. Because they are. They still are.) But I have an issue on denying it when it‘s pretty overt, and their actions clearly are speaking a hundred decibels louder than their denials. Ignore it if you can‘t admit it, but don‘t deny it. If you must lie, do it beautifully. Truth is beauty, but beauty is fake.

I am not after labels. I hid in the closet once.

“I’ve never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. The pain is like an axe that chops my heart. ”

So, I used this as my cover photo in Facebook:

It’s a snapshot off the lyric video of Payphone, that new Maroon 5 song. Now, my aunt from Canada (who’s notorious for nosing into our accounts and giving comments like “Take that down.”, “You’re revealing too much.”, “Why did you post that, you silly?”) beeped me and asked me what the hell was I thinking. Asked me if I understand what fucking meant. Asked why on earth did I use that as my cover photo. Well, I meant to say that I love the song. I love that line. That I love swearing. But that means earning the red card for bad attitude. And I can’t afford that. So, I took it down like she would have wanted me to do. End of argument. I’m good boy, again. Oh my aunt, she can be so annoying sometimes. I just wish she stops looking at us like we’re seven year-olds. Unfriending her? Not one of the options. I can’t stand not having my share of the chocolates. Plus she gave me a complete DVD collection of Harry Potter last month. So yes, I guess I have to put up with my dear old aunt’s ways. Besides, I love her just the same. Not sure, though, if I love swearing and Maroon 5’s Payphone more.

I could fall for anyone who writes me letters.

I’ve been looking through blogs and see a few ‘bloggers’ describing themselves through their birthdays; e.g. “…born 4 days after blah-blah-blah”, “I was born in the first day of the EDSA Revolution”. I’m quite fascinated at how people want themselves to be remembered that way; “Oh, there’s that guy who was born on World Aids Day.”,”…here comes the Valentine’s baby.” If I were to be defined by my birthday, that would mean I was conceived around Christmas. When it’s all cold and chilly and cuddling is a very tempting activity. That explains how I’m so needy for hugs and kisses. Plus, I was born on the Feast of the Beheading of John the Baptist. Who got his head on a silver plate. So maybe, that means I am a huge eater I could eat a human head. Or maybe I’d be falling for a boy named John who one day, might end up with his head on a platter. O wait, my recent ex is named John.

Deep breaths.
I keep making deep breaths.
Each deeper than the last one.
I dig deep into my lungs, till I can feel there’s nothing left inside but soot from the last cigar I smoked.
And then, I let go.
Let it all go.
I exhale every carbon dioxide atom into the air.
And they would scatter into the atmosphere to search for a life form to keep them.
I don’t know that, though.
I can’t see them.
But I don’t fear losing my breath.
I know that one by one they will come back to me.
Because no one will take them.
No one to take my breath away.
They’re damaged and punctured.
Like my lungs.
Like me.

I haven’t cried in weeks.

Some days, I’m just too tired from hours and hours of thinking of you. Some days, I just stare into the darkness inside me and stay numb. And I’m worried. I’m worried that if I discontinue grieving for you, I’ll forget you. I don’t want to forget you. That’s in spite the painful truth that you have forgotten all about me by this time.

So today, I will cry.

And remember you in every tear that falls.

PUPPY LOVE

So, our pet dog gave birth to four cute little puppies. They were all females, and they were of varying colors and hair length. We only adopt AsPins, because they require lesser time and effort to maintain. Plus, they’re very efficient. They bark at every person who attempts to scrub his feet off your rug. They scare off burglars. They keep the house from falling into a lull with their sounds. And they’re just as adorable.

We haven’t named them yet. So that no attachment may be established, we’ve been told. My dad has no plans of keeping them, since our household can only accommodate two at a time. I mean, who would you expect to take care of all of them when my parents are both working, and I and my sister are busy studying some miles away? So there, with heavy hearts, we’ll be handing them out to interested neighbors in a few weeks’ time.

The white one is my favorite! I hope I can keep her. She’s very clingy, she always nose-touch me when I play with her. Some cute name suggestions, anyone? In case I could plead her case with my father. :)