I constantly need physical contact. And by that I don’t mean rubbing your private parts against each other; by that I mean slapping, tapping, pinching, caressing, whacking, massaging, strangulating, touching, brushing, jabbing, squeezing, poking, elbowing, kicking, punching, biting, and all other forms of violent and nonviolent physical contact towards someone else. I’ll give you a rib-breaking hug if I miss you. Shake your hand if you’re a new friend. Grab your ass if I find it scrumptious. (I have ass fetish.XP One time I told a girl what a nice tight ass she has and she thought I was lesbo. Good lord. I wish I was.XP I have oral sex lesbian fantasies I swear to Ueuecoyotl.) Pinch your soft flabby excess fats. Poke your unsuspecting open armpits. Tickle your sides. Rake your hair with my fingers. Brush the dandruff off your shoulders. Rub your back. Step on your foot. Punch your shoulder. Bite your arm. Simply put, I am violently affectionate. My hands, feet, and teeth are an extension of my, well, insecure ego. Or maybe I’ve just read too much quantum mechanics and string theory (and mental disorders and religious delusions, mind) crap that I’d have to ascertain the existence of something by touching it. It’s an automatic muscular reflex. (I once kissed a dude on the street and he went like, What the hell was that all about? I dunno, I muttered, I just felt like it. Seriously: I don’t fucking know. And I just felt like it.) Likewise I’d need to touch a ghost if ever I see one—that’s only if Butiki is with me. Otherwise I’ll go berserk. I’m scurrrred.
That was a freakin longish introduction for the boogershit that happened today. There’s this afro midget with wild wacky hair at work who surreptitiously described me “beautiful and intelligent”. Correction, I’m not beautiful and intelligent. I’m just not ugly and cerebrally incompetent. Besides, I’m a monster inside. Let’s call him Afro Midget. He’s one of the two people I’d never bully or pester at work. Today his hair was tied in a pony and he wore a knitted moss green army cap. Wait, no. I never bullied or pestered him, but I used to feel my palm on his thick nest-like black hair when he’s wearing his multicolor reggae sweatband. Ang lambot, I’d comment, parang pugad ng itlog. This time I furtively slithered behind him and grabbed his cap off his head. His ringleted frizzy hair flew in all directions, his deafening shriek attracting the attention of everybody. He grabbed his cap back and yelled a solid “Paaaakyuuu!” at me. I laughed hysterically and apologized, thinking he’d just laugh it off and let it pass or give me a blow in the face or strangulate me unconscious just like how everybody else seek their vengeance against me, but his face was screwed into the fiery grimace of the God of Anger, Pain, and Humiliation. Kung lalake ka lang, he spoke furiously, kung lalake ka lang jinab na kita kanina pa! (Holy shit! Jinab!XD Past tense of jab, mind.XD WAHAHAHAHAHAHA.) I apologized profusely and insisted it was just a joke, but he just sputtered another explosive “Shaaattap! Paaaakyuuu!” in my face with everybody staring at us. He didn’t accept my apology but he clobbered me, stabbed me, kicked me in the gut, slapped me in the face just to get even. I am masochism personified. I love pain and I needed and deserved pain at that moment. Only that he didn’t clobber me, stab me, kick me in the gut, or slap me in the face. He just walked out livid in heavy footsteps echoing the weight of his stifled anger, a trail of flames tracing from his behind.
I refrained from being violently affectionate from that moment on. And I just felt DEAD. Stripping myself of movement traps my energy making me impotent and cataleptic.
Besides that, I had a bout of clinical suicidal depression (a probable residue from my cured bipolar disorder) yesterday prior to going to work. After days of hyperactive interaction with Butiki I just felt depressed, despondent, detached, psychotic, and mummylike. I just wanted to curl in my bed and die alone for no apparent reason. I wanted to detach myself from reality, break up with Butiki, resign from work, throw my phone away, permanently disconnect my internet connection, and just go some place serene and naturebound, like near a forest fire or at the crater of a volcano or something potentially violent but inexplicably mystifying and beautiful.
The problem with me and Butiki is that we’re the king and queen of Tamang Hinala. One single split-second look unravels the ineffable emotion hiding inside. It was that same look I had when I tried to break up with him and he never failed to notice it.
Err. He reckons the sparkle is lost, that I’ve fallen out, given up, nonchalant, untroubled, indifferent. I mentally walked away and retreated to my dormant volcano but he looked at me and I was distracted by what I read in his eyes. You’re confused, I mumbled. Yes, he replied. We once had an agreement that we’ll risk everything for this relationship—the consequences of falling out, getting hurt, finding someone else, whatever—as long as we’re together right fucking now, where “nothing exists outside this moment” (Irvine Welsh, Trainspotting). His presence is all that matters. My presence is all that matters. We’re just so happy we could die together. It’s the most incomprehensible paradox I’ve ever felt in my life. Cheeeeeeeeeezy.XP We want to be together because we want to be happy, but we want to depart from this world and be happy, but we’ll cease to be happy once we’re dead, but we’ll not cease to be happy once we’re dead because we’ll be incapable of feeling by then. But then again we’re just so happy we could die together.XP And yet that line ceases to be incomprehensibly paradoxical because I’ve just unfurled my convoluted explanation.
Everything went downhill when I told (texted) him I was sketching an ambigram of a tattoo and what a gratifying feeling it is to have spinning needles embedding ink on my skin.
The thing about couples who play chess is that they treat their opponent in a chesslike manner. We don’t care whose king gets eaten as long as we play the game. HOLY SHIT! I just had an epiphany!:o Every time Butiki and I play chess, I don’t mind losing because losing makes me stronger, smarter, more adept and strategy inclined. But when he loses his queen or predict an imminent trap on his king, he gives the fuck up. Similarly, I don’t give a fuck about who loses in this “game of love” (Jesus fucking Christ!XP), it’s the process of playing that matters anyway, and when he thinks something’s wrong he gets confused and has the urge to surrender the relationship. The fuck is up with that? So about the tattoo thingamafuck, he knows I’m masochistic when I’m depressed and he thought I’m still depressed long after we’ve surpassed another possible unreasonable breakup.
Whatever.
I just figured: I’m EMOTIONAL. Bloody fuck. Or maybe I’m just overreacting.XP In fact, I am overreacting.
