(I was supposed to upload a Wordpress theme that I created— not just modified— and guess what? I couldn’t log in to my FTP or Plesk. Why? My account’s been suspended WITHOUT WARNING OR MY KNOWLEDGE. Hurrah hurrah. FUCK THIS.)

It hits me at the weirdest times, like on my way to the bathroom he uses when he’s at my place or worse, when I figure out a code and have to share my success as a geek with someone (which happens a lot lately, considering that all I ever do now when I’m home is code. Hello, escapism).

It’s lonely without lover.

There are times that I think I may be hitting a new level of pathetic…ity. Patheticity? Patheticness? In an almost desperate need to bridge the physical distance, I surround myself with things that remind me of him. I bought a blue bottle of baby powder the other day. Soon, when Mr Snowman starts smelling like his stuffed toy self, I just might buy myself a bottle of Hugo Boss. Sometimes, when it’s really bad (which is, like, several times a day, everyday), I open the anti-perspirant stick he left at my place and take a whiff. It’s not as good as shoving my nose in his armpits, but it’s all I have. And my laptop’s latest most played genres? Hiphop and R&B— before, I had about ten songs belonging to both genres; now, it’s multiplied by ten. And because I enjoy seeing highschool boys who act like they own everyfucking internet cafe in Katipunan miserable by making their stupid LAN games lag, I’m bound to download more. And whole albums at that. Obnoxiously loud acne-ridden brats. Virgins.

I’m never like this. Sure, I’m clingy, I’m needy, I’m a typical girl, but I usually have a good grasp of things and of myself. A friend once said that what he liked most about me was that I was one of the few people he knew who had a balanced EQ and IQ. Of course, I was seventeen when he told me that, the age when I was a well-read and opinionated college freshman, and the string of half-formed relationships with the wrong kind of men was to come years later (meaning: the next year).

Being (physically) single sucks. The other day, I saw this chick wearing a shirt that said “Busy Being Single”. Unless it’s incredibly witty or it contains self-deprecating humor, I absolutely despise statemented shirts. Whenever I see a girl wearing something that announces her middle name to be bitchy (Bitchy Is My Middle Name) or any variation of it (Me So Bitchy) or some loser claiming to be a “Certified Sex Instructor”, I can’t help but throw a sneer their way. It’s trite, it’s contrived, it’s juvenile, and the shirts are hideous.

So this girl who is someone I wouldn’t have given a moment’s notice to, caught my attention, only because of her shirt with the big bold yellow letters telling us of what’s been keeping her busy. I thought to myself: busy being single…and doing what? Nevermind her, her time’s probably occupied with things like the latest Koreanovelas and lamely running from one bulding’s shadow to another during noon (what’s up with that? I see SO many chicks doing it), avoiding the sun, so she wouldn’t end up with a ridiculous farmer’s tan so she could attract some dude and finally be able to take a much needed rest from singlehood. No, not her; I was thinking about me.

I thought: “HEY! I should be busy! Doing something!” After proving to my housemate that through the song Listen, Beyonce is actually Filipino (Galisin! I am alone at a crossroads!), I got off my ass and got busy shaving my legs (because I was going out that night).

As I rinsed a soapy right leg under the shower, I noticed a tiny cluster of varicose veins. What. The. Hell.

So now I’m (physically) single and busy freaking out over this.