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108 degrees Fahrenheit
So, okay, I admit, I'm a bit of an emotional retard.
I've always found it hard to express myself, especially to men who matter. Nevermind that I can eloquently present my work, can write 150 words a minute and have a vocabulary large enough to never need to use the f*** word to tell off Account Management. Heck, all that is of no use when I'm with the male species.
My only explanation is fever.
Well, you know how it becomes dangerous when your fever goes out of control - you might end up mute, deaf or both? Well, I suspect, that's what happens to me.
Fever Case #1
Back in those days of carrot jeans, tuition classes, and what I thought then - "the most beautiful boy I've ever see" - Tommy (please, no connection whatsoever with Tommy Page and of course, not his real name).
Every Add Math class, I'll sit behind Tommy - so that I could gaze at his wavy dark brown hair. I'll tuck my hands safely under my armpits, lest my fingers run amok and tear through those luscious locks. (And after being under my armpits, I don't think he'll appreciate me wiping my sweaty palms all over his brylcreemed hair).
And on those days when watching his back isn't enough, my pens would find a thousand ways to somersault off my table. He, being the gentleman he was, would turn around and pick them up. Of course, I never "looked" at him picking them up. I never even smiled. I'll readjust my glasses and pretend to see through him to the writing on the whiteboard.
Then Form 5 ended. He was gone. And I never even got to say thanks to him for picking all those pens. Needless to say, I barely passed Add Math.
Fever Case #3
Bryan. The bad boy with the bike. He was a college mate's neighbour. I found a lot of reasons to visit her. (Sorry, M, now you know) He'll be out on the porch, some times polishing his bike, at other times, I secretly believed, to check me out. Sweaty man and a powerbike. Who could resist such a potent combo? I would arrive at M's, sneak a peek at him and pretend he wasn't even there.
Bryan, unlike Tommy, was a little more worldly wise and could smell my I'm-not-interested interest a mile away. Pheromones, I suspect. So, one day, when I hopped off the bus near M's, he was there, waiting. Glistening under the sun. "Want a lift?" he asked. I was stunned. Tongue-tied. I blushed till my feet turned blue, cause the blood had all rushed to my head. I don't think I ever answered him. He started his bike. I got on. And we took two hours to get to M's.
Fever Case #3
It said Jr Copywriter on my name card. And when they asked me to work on my first TVC, I did cartwheels. At last, the real stuff. Then, came my 1st pre-pro. The team came in one by one and finally, him - the Producer. I held my jaw to stop it from hitting the conference table. He was - for lack of a better word - hot! Woo!
I found it totally unnerving to be in the same room as he was, so Ms Retard showed up instead. And instead of being "nice" or better yet "flirty", I picked on him. I complained about everything - the pre-pro scheduling, the talents, the location, costumes - you name it. Till today, I don't know why. Maybe it is an in-built defense mechanism that kicks in to stop me from drooling over some one I work with. He was really glad when the TVC was over. I wasn't.
By now, I thought I would have outgrown my girlish inaptitude.
But I guess I've just refined them.
Pencil chewed at 6:30:00 pm //
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Off the wall
Once there was a little Fly, perched on the wall,
Gave her Flyboy a challenge, thought he didn't have the gall,
And off she flew from her stall, she was going to have a ball.
Flyboy was no sugar and spice, in fact, he was a little sly,
No, no, no, he wanted to prove he was not some regular guy,
Muahaha, his fingers tapped, he was gonna make her cry.
Little Fly, innocent and unknowing, read his solemn post
Her lips trembled, her face drained, as though she's seen a ghost
All she could do was drink black coffee and chew on burnt toast
Flyboy called, his mood high, pleased as pie
"How was my post? Did the Fly die?"
"Oh, it was alright," poor Fly was forced to lie.
Flyboy laughed, didn't I say he was pretty sly?
"You were floored, admit it, don't be shy."
"Ok, ok, it was good. Now, shut up and good bye."
Flyboy laughed again, even more pleased than pie
While poor Fly really felt like she could die
"Yeah, it was good," she sighed, "You made me cry."
She waited for the peals of laughter from the other end,
But there was none, only silence and the whirring of the fan,
"Hello? Hello?" My God, what has happened to the man?
"I meant what I wrote, you know?" he said,
It better be, she thought, or you'll be dead,
"I know," she said, "but my dear, you still won't get laid."
So once there was a little Fly who fell off the wall,
Cause her Flyboy rose to the challenge, oh boy, he did have the gall,
Alas! It's a bloody fine way for a Fly to fall, thanks for reading, good day, y'all.
Pencil chewed at 6:13:00 pm //
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My letter to Fly
Dearest,
It's taken me a long time to write this. As you know, I'm no writer. But I will try my best.
Nicknames make it is easier to write, don't they? By the way, why Matt? I hope I have proven to you that I'm no EgoManiac. And thanks for the compliments on the pearly whites. (I did read the archives.)
Firstly, I apologise for being upset. I have no right to be. This is your blog - your little free speech zone. It is your thoughts, your feelings. I might just take up the suggestion to start my own. Tit for tat. Zig for zag. ;)
But what was undeniable was that I was upset. It took me a while to figure why. After all, it did seem trivial and you did write nice stuff about me. Which was why I needed time.
So ... why was I upset?
Fly, do you know that you are so much more free and open in this blog than you are with me? I feel that I share so little of your thoughts and feelings. Many a times, I've stumped my nose against your 'Keep Out' sign. That hurts.
It hurts because I'm like the stupid fool standing outside Alladin's cave who doesn't know the password. And he doesn't even know whether there's one. He has to be content with the few gold nuggets you occasionally drop into his palm, while he watches you shovel by the bucket loads to others.
(Not a bad analogy, huh?)
We're like the perfect sitcom couple. We exchange insults, we trade jokes, we bop each other's heads. But we skip round the issues. Nothing too heavy, nothing too threatening. We don't want to get too vulnerable, do we?
Don't get me wrong, I love your humour. I love hearing you laugh and seeing you curled up, exhausted from a good ab-crunching laugh. But, my dearest, I'm good for tears too.
Openness. Vulnerability. If that is not too much to ask.
Which makes me wonder - is it me? You don't feel safe? Why can't you be open with me as you obviously are with your "half a million blog readers"?
Some times I just don't know.
I don't know where I stack. Because I don't know how you feel.
You're holding back so much. You've been hurt in the past, I know that. But I am not him. I will not let myself be the one to live out his sentence.
You'll probably hate me for writing this. But it is a risk I am willing to take. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that this make a chink in your armour. But if it doesn't, I guess I will finally know where I stand. At the very least, I would have been honest to myself.
Where do you want us to go from here, Fly?
It is your call. But I need to know.
Love me, Fly. And let me love you.
Always,
---- a.k.a Matt
Pencil chewed at 6:53:00 am //
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This blog waits for no man
This is killing me. The wait.
When is Matt going to get round to posting his entry?
He says he's still working on it.
"Good things come to those who wait," he added. Geez.
Shakespeare would have completed Romeo & Juliet by now.
I think I hafta give the man a deadline. And a brief.
Pencil chewed at 1:16:00 pm //
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