[Better late than never.]
February 14, 2001.
Valentine’s Days in high school are fun. As fun as a jackhammer pounding your heart. As fun as your self-humiliating exercises in stupidity when courting a loved one.
And the only people who understand this perverted ‘fun’ are those who will kiss Cupid’s ass for her (or his) love. Funny.
I submit to you this pathetic excuse for a suitor as Exhibit A. Yours truly.
Two bouquets. One barely surviving. One already wasted, its petals trampled by similarly-eager lovestruck students at the PSHS lobby. And of course, the insanely-expensive Ferrero Rochers, ubiquitous this romantic season. Ready to be sampled by her dormmates.
Valentine’s Days in high school are fun. Waiting for her for three damn hours at the dormitory is fun.
Hey, no problem. Anything for her. Even a kiss on Cupid’s butt (told you so).
And in a few days, the prom. Unlike the more pathetic guys around me, I’ve got a date. The Princess. (That is not her name, commoner, but a true sultanate title. In romantic, fairy-tale fashion.)
“Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it, everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, never…never forget it.” — Curtis Judalet
February 14, 2002.
Love is a luxury. But when your head is all inflated and you’re feeling mighty, it’s an afterthought.
They already call me the ‘King of the Philippines’. A week ago, General Santos City became my throne. Of the thousands of high school campus journalists, I emerged on top.
I don’t need love. My pen is the only thing I need, baby.
Eat my exemplary journalism, Cupid.
Oh, yes. Prom is — again — a few days away. No promdate. Don’t want to have one.
Actually, it’s the Princess who wants to go ’stag’. Not me.
Hah. Her loss.
Please take me back, Princess!
I am a triumphant loser.
“Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?” — Jane Seabrook
February 14, 2003.
Third year of proudly exercising my right to become a woman’s slave.
Nick Joaquin would be proud. Imagine — Corsarius, new hero of The Summer Solstice. Tadtarin Part 2.
High school Valentines are over. The University is the new battleground. But yes, same girl. Same Princess.
Three roses. A poem. This’ll do. Though I’ve heard her bestfriend’s going to shower her with bouquets upon bouquets.
To heck with it.
I will NEVER lose.
After all, have you ever heard of a peasant failing to win the princess’ heart? No. It always ends up nice and pretty in fairy tales.
Imagine. THREE YEARS. Sa’n ka pa?
The ending of this tale is going to be perfect.
And yeah, tried to give my own bestfriend a blue rose. Failed. She said her mom and pop would get suspicious.
“I ran into my ex today…then I hit reverse and ran into her again.” - Unknown
February 14, 2004.
Bestfriend Sophia is with me. McDonalds Philcoa is our haven.
Minutes ago, we were cavalcading ourselves on the Palma Hall steps. Fighting over what were the correct answers to the Physics exam.
Eat magnetic induction, Cupid.
I wonder how the Princess is faring with her ‘bestfriend’.
“I’m not rushing into being in love. I’m finding fourth grade hard enough.” — Terra (10 yrs. old)
February 14, 2005.
No money. The bank is brimming with people changing cheques to bucks. I’m not one of them. I’d be nowhere near the middle of the queue when the bank-tellers pack up, presumably for their own Valentines dates.
My salary’s going to be for nuts, after all. Goodbye, Valentine’s Day.
Love’s commercialization is sickening.
That’s why bestfriend Sophia and me are sitting here in a dingy restaurant in UP Diliman’s Shopping Center. Breaded porkchop for me. Icky squid for her.
No roses. No red-pink-rosy Hallmark cards with center-aligned rhyming ‘poetry’.
I said: No money.
Commercialization is optional.
To paraphrase the late and the great Jose Garcia Villa*, “Always and always the Cupid astir / Ages and ages assailing man the fair / Assuaging now afflicting now man the alone / Stuff that rubber arrow into your fat arse!”
Belated Happy Valentine’s Day to y’all.
*Please, esteemed poet, do not go a-rolling in your grave. Please.