bleak and pretty

It was about 2 am when we decided to part ways. While I was waiting for a ride, a guy mistook me for a prostitute.

A souvenir from last Saturday night:

I wasn't “staying in” on a Saturday night. There were sights to be seen, music and words to be heard, and sights to be looked at. A friend to be seen.

A couple bottles of beer to be chugged.

8pm. I listened to Ampalaya Monologues, in Commune, some place in Poblacion, Makati. Found out about it via Reddit. Asked an old time girlfriend to come with me.

Place was packed so we ended up sitting on the floor, in a corner.

Nothing extremely amazing about the performers. What stood out for me was a piece about a single mom, explaining to her kid about his/her deadbeat dad. It resonated on a personal level.

I just, well, bit my tongue. Couldn't help but think about my boyfriend's ex.

After the event, my friend and I grabbed some food at Filling Station, where I got a pretty nice picture.

The place was amazing. It was just like the restaurant in Pulp Fiction — servers in costume, vintage posters, life-size statues. Lights and more lights and decorations. They served “5-dollar milkshakes” too.

I had my second bottle of beer and a slice of lemon meringue pie. I loved it.

I had a phone conversation with my boyfriend while finishing said pie. It was a heated conversation. I was mad at him. The alcohol in my blood didn't make the anger any less inhibited.

Let me write about it next time.

Anyway.

After Filling Station, we walked around to see where else we could go.

We were at the heart of Makati's red light district. For the first time, I saw prostitutes standing by the streets. They looked fancy, coming out from movies, pretty faces, walking taboos.

We didn't check out a club; I thought it was scary, kinda like entering the gates of hell, haha. I'm just a surfer kid, let's be reminded of that. I'm a rural Maria Clara at heart.

Though a couple days ago, I was watching Magic Mike and wishing I could see male strippers onstage.

I wasn't sure if there were clubs like that in the part of Makati we were in.

So we skipped all that, and we went to a harmless sober corner to get some Chinese food. I got a taste of ridiculously good dumplings by Tien Ma. They called it Xiao Long Bao. I made a mental note to visit the place again because they served great food, and it wasn't as pricey as other restaurants.

(As I write this I realize I'm hungry.)

It was about 2 am when we decided to part ways. While I was waiting for a ride, a black guy mistook me for a prostitute (I mean, really, sir, I'm wearing an Old Navy and I don't have any makeup and my hair isn't done).

I was like, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

Was being taken for a hooker an insult or a compliment? I don't know.

I got home past 2 am. I slept a little. I tried to do laundry the next day, but I ended up sleeping the whole day. I continued my laundry at around 10 pm.

I resumed my argument with my boyfriend via another phone call. I ended up crying — I don't know, bipolar meltdown, I guess?

I needed to smoke.

I went to a store in the middle of the night to buy a couple Marlboros and instant noodles. Walking home, I felt like some truly low-level poor person. A total plebian.

The first inhale of cigarette smoke, after about three months of not having any, felt weird. But I was relieved. It was like the embrace of an old friend. Everything was gonna be alright. Fuck trying to get pregnant. I'm so exhausted and frustrated and lonely. Thanks to my kitten I'm officially not living alone, and my hell has become a little easier to endure.

I took a shower and felt 10x better.

Made some pancakes. So I could eat something. I spent the rest of the night on Reddit and playing puzzle games.

I watched porn. Played more games. Thought about my life (the shithole I'm in), what I could've done with my 1000 pesos instead of spending it all on a Saturday night.

Convinced myself that I needed to spend the money, because if I didn't, I'd probably end up cutting myself again due to loneliness.

Or maybe I just needed an excuse to distract myself, hear other people's voice, go to some place where I'd be mistaken for a prostitute. Fill up my spirit with something vile and dangerous and not so funny, because that's better than being empty.

No regrets because the food was good. The beer was sweet.

In the morning, after all the fuss and the strange ups and downs of the weekend, I apologized to my boyfriend. I was being a bitch, for the countless-th time. I told him how much I missed him, how much I just wanted to feel his embrace.

That was all I ever needed.

But still, it was not so bad — I saw something new and tasted something new for the weekend. And in some way, I could still hear the voices of the spoken word performers, a reminder that I'm not the only tortured soul in this world.

We all feel. It's a gift and a curse.