Epileptic fit
People who are close to me know that I have near-zero tolerance for romantic talk. I cringe at the mere notion of hearing people in close proximity to one another (so close, in fact, that they can smell each other's breath) mutter, "You are my life, and I am not the same without you." My system would, under ordinary circumstances, fail to tolerate the increased dose of corniness. (It's not that I hate it. On the contrary, I think it's all normal). When people begin talking about their romantic lives and pursuits, even heartbreaks, at my presence, I would try my best to pay close attention; and I somehow manage, because these people are my friends--and what do friends do to each other but to listen and care? And though I sometimes find it hard to relate to them, God would be so good as to enable me to give them sound advice: "beware of the deceitfulness of the heart, be mindful of God's will for you."
But when people begin asking me things alluding to romantic relationships only for the sake of extracting valuable information about my past--who were my crushes and who are my crushes (none, I tell you)--I would either abruptly change the conversation; or, if they still pursue with the topic despite my obvious allergic reactions, I would direct the questions to someone else. And it usually works that way. Most of the time, at least.
It's not a wonder why my friends, for the sake of making me uneasy and uncomfortable, would, out of the blue, tell me, "Lance, iba talaga 'pag may minamahal, no?" I would normally dismiss the thought, and talk about something else. But my friends would laugh at me, as if to tell me, "I got you there, Lance." Well, they got me there. But because of prolonged exposure to conversations like this, I am led to believe that my tolerance has somehow increased, though still not enough to help me survive cheesy Tagalog romantic film episodes. If you have romantic problems to share, I say with Boy Abunda (my doppelganger, I'm often told): Kaibigan, usap tayo.
And better have an ambulance ready, or you might just see me have an epileptic fit.
But when people begin asking me things alluding to romantic relationships only for the sake of extracting valuable information about my past--who were my crushes and who are my crushes (none, I tell you)--I would either abruptly change the conversation; or, if they still pursue with the topic despite my obvious allergic reactions, I would direct the questions to someone else. And it usually works that way. Most of the time, at least.
It's not a wonder why my friends, for the sake of making me uneasy and uncomfortable, would, out of the blue, tell me, "Lance, iba talaga 'pag may minamahal, no?" I would normally dismiss the thought, and talk about something else. But my friends would laugh at me, as if to tell me, "I got you there, Lance." Well, they got me there. But because of prolonged exposure to conversations like this, I am led to believe that my tolerance has somehow increased, though still not enough to help me survive cheesy Tagalog romantic film episodes. If you have romantic problems to share, I say with Boy Abunda (my doppelganger, I'm often told): Kaibigan, usap tayo.
And better have an ambulance ready, or you might just see me have an epileptic fit.
posted on November 25, 2006
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