I can’t love you yet

I can’t love you yet. I really want to already, but I’ve been told I need to hold back. I need to play it cool, play hard to get, not rush into it too soon. I don’t know you yet, they said, because you look and sound like trouble. I can’t love you yet, because you are practically a stranger. Because love at first sight only exists in movies, and whirlwind romances often lead to disaster – the latter I know for a fact, because I have been in one and to say it was disastrous is an understatement. At my age, they said, I cannot afford another heartbreak.

I can’t love you yet. We need to take it slow, because that’s the safe, rational thing to do. We have nothing between us except limited interaction that can hardly pass as flirtation, let alone courtship. And courtship, I’m told, is very important if I want to be taken seriously. And that is one of the reasons why I apparently cannot love you yet – I have absolutely no idea if you are serious. If whatever we have can ever turn into something serious. I can’t love you yet, because everything is uncertain, and that is a very dangerous thing when it comes to love. Everything has to be sure.

I can’t love you yet, because I don’t know if that’s something I am capable of feeling at this point in my life. Sure, I like you – more than I would like to admit – but I am scared to death of labelling how I feel for you as love. Because the moment I do, there is no turning back. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I hope you know that it’s not your fault. I hope you know that it isn’t because of anything you said or did – to me, you’re practically perfect. Trite as it may seem, it’s not you, it’s me. Me, and all the voices in my head, as well as those around me.

So while I cannot love you yet, allow me to stare at you a little longer. Let my gaze linger while you do ordinary things that, to me, are mesmerizing nonetheless. Allow me to indulge in our conversations – tell me your secrets, how your day went, how you want your steak done. Know that I savor every word, every sentence, every question. Let me bask in the glory that is your smile. Know that your smile acts as a balm to everything unpleasant in my life. Let me seek refuge in the sound of your voice. I still amazes me how it can calm me and excite me at the same time. Let me do my happy dance whenever I receive a Viber message from you. Let me squeal whenever you wish me goodnight or tell me good morning.

I can’t love you yet, but allow me to fantasize about you, about us, a little longer. Let me practice what to say when I am finally ready to confess that I do, indeed, love you. Allow me think of you first thing in the morning, and right before I close my eyes at night. Allow my heart to race a little faster every time I catch a glimpse of you, or get a whiff of your scent. Allow me to panic slightly whenever I’m near you, because, like a silly teenager in the presence of her ultimate crush, I never seem to know what to say or how to act around you. Allow me to look straight into your eyes while we talk, or when we say nothing at all. Know that I melt inside every single time. Allow the butterflies in my stomach to flutter whenever you’re within touching distance. Know that it takes every single ounce of self-control to keep me from reaching out because the thought of you pulling away and rejecting my touch terrifies me.

I can’t love you yet, because the thought of falling in love for the nth time in my life scares me. Just the thought of it tires me already. It scares me how easily I break into a silly grin when someone mentions your name. It bothers me how I can spend hours just thinking about you. It scares me that I get a lump in my throat whenever the people who know about you ask me how I feel about you. I know you make me happy, and I know you’re special, but why do I want to cry? It scares me how you affect my emotions, even if you have no idea of the effect you have on me. It scares me that I instinctively think of you when I hear a love song, every word an accurate description of how I feel, or see a couple holding hands. I think, wistfully, that should be us.

Loving you scares me. Because it’s YOU. I have never felt this way about anyone else before. But for you, I just might make an exception, if only to make up for the smiles and the pretty words and for the way you make me feel. I can’t love you yet, because I don’t know if we will have a happy ending, and at my age, the words “happy” and “ending” mean so much. I don’t know if having the right to call you mine will be a permanent thing, because you’re a catch and I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who feels this way for you. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re a catch.

I can’t love you yet, even if there’s mounting evidence that maybe, just maybe, you feel the same way. Because you smile at me the way you do and talk to me about things that only a girlfriend ought to know. What if I’m wrong? What if everything’s just happening in my head?

I can’t love you yet. But brace yourself for when I finally can, because I promise to love the hell out of you.

10 years later: A confession of sorts

I woke up today with you as my first thought – the way it has been since the day I met you. And then, it hit me – that was exactly 10 years ago today.

I wasn’t going to romanticize today. I didn’t even plan on remembering. But, like my heart, my memory betrays me at the most inconvenient of times and here I am, reminiscing on events that I tried very hard to forget the past three years.  It sucks that I remember exactly what we were both wearing, the things we talked about, how I caught you staring at me, that first little wave that gave both of us the courage to talk to one another, the long route that you took to bring me home, the surprised look on your face when I offered to buy you coffee, how hard and fast my heart beat when I leaned in to kiss your cheek, and how I wished that it wouldn’t be the last time I would see you.

That night changed my life forever. The very next day, I found myself caught in a whirlwind romance that was one for the books. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling that much love for anyone, and that I could fall in love at first sight. I didn’t know a lot of things about love and about life, and suddenly, there you were, the answer to every single question, to every single problem. You were the lifeline I desperately needed. You were the love I have always prayed and waited for.

But, in the words of Adam Levine, even the sun sets in paradise. No matter how epic things were when we first started out, it turns out you and I were not meant to be together forever. We stubbornly clung to one another for as long as we could, but something had to give. In the end, you gave up on me, on us. I hated you at first for it and I thought I would never ever forgive you. But later on, when I was back to being a sane and rational being, I realized that you deserved to be happy, and if being with me didn’t make you happy anymore, then I was not in any position to stop you or question your decision. I had to let you go, even if it felt like the end of the world for me. I had to learn how to detach myself from you and your life, even if I questioned most of your choices and I sincerely felt you were making a huge mistake. I had to learn how to live like you were never coming back – and it served me well to have mastered it, because, well, you never came back and I don’t think you ever will.

I have vilified you a lot of times and often painted you as the villain. While I stand for everything I wrote and everything I said about you, I intentionally left out a lot of things – the good things. You see, I didn’t want people to think that despite everything, I haven’t learned and I still worshipped you. It was easier to hate you. For me to be able to get over you, I had to forget that you were, in your own way, a good person, and focus on how much you hurt me. I had to forget about the many times I fell in love with you during the course of our relationship. I had to forget that you were my rock and my strength.   The funny thing is that despite being fully aware of the many ways you hurt and betrayed me, I can never fully forget about the wonderful things you have done for me. Whereas before, while we were a couple, all I could see were your shortcomings, I now see your strengths. Talk about irony.

Many times after the breakup (and fine, during the last year of our relationship), I’ve always fantasized about turning back time, so I could undo my mistakes. The biggest mistake, the one I would like to undo to most, would be saying yes to you when you asked me if I needed I ride home. I always believed that I would have fared better in life if I just took a cab going home and if you remained a casual acquaintance – someone I talked to occasionally online, someone I would bump into at the games once in a while, someone I’d probably stop and say hello to when I saw you in public. I blamed every single misfortune, every bad decision, every careless action, on that “yes.” I thought that if you didn’t bring me home, I would have stayed slim and young and happy. I would have fallen in love much later on with someone who understood me more, perhaps someone younger and more romantic. I would have stayed in school and obeyed my parents. I wouldn’t have been forced to work, because they wouldn’t cut off financial support. I thought that maybe, just maybe, I would have been happier.

In hindsight though, I wouldn’t have it any other way. While I am happy with the person I ultimately became a decade after, there was no way I could have fast-forwarded to this state or got to where I am by easier means. No, for me to realize that I was a shallow, selfish, bratty girl who wasn’t God’s gift to men and who didn’t know everything about life and about love, I had to meet you and learn from you. For me to become braver and stronger, I had to be left by you. For me to know exactly what I am capable of and what it is that I really want to be, I had to be guided and encouraged by you. For me to fully understand what it meant to really love, I had to feel it for you – and I had to get it from you, firsthand. And I did, even on those days when I was impossible to love.

I suppose what I really want to say, more than anything, is thank you. Thank you for offering to give me a ride home the night I met you. For pursuing me, and sweeping me off my feet. For guiding me from my late teens through my mid-twenties and teaching me important life skills. Thank you for taking care of me so well and for making sure I lived comfortably and providing me with all the support I need, in all forms possible. Thank you for making me laugh. Thank you for loving me the way you did. Thank you for sticking to your guns and insisting you love me in your own way, instead of succumbing to the fairy tale fantasies I had. It was the kind of love I needed, although I did not know it at the time. Thank you for staying for as long as you could. Thank you for asking me to marry you. Thank you for passing by. I have come to accept that our love had a reason – and that is to teach us lessons to that we’d be better people. I no longer regret meeting you, or loving you. Thank you for being a huge part of my life.

We’ve both moved on, and we’re happier where we are now. We are both lucky enough to have found love with other people –  people who are more capable of understanding us.  I have long forgiven you for everything. I hope that you, too, can find it in yourself to forgive me for all my shortcomings as a girlfriend, as a fiancée, as a best friend.  I can only hope that when you remember the events that led to our seven-year relationship, you, too, would smile, and not regret anything. I hope you don’t forget that a decade ago, there was a girl who completely lost her head over you and that for almost an entire decade, you had her heart.

I sincerely wish you the best in everything. Stay healthy, stay happy, and remember that you are worth loving. Maybe given a few more years, you and I can become friends – eventually, the kind of friends that will be genuinely happy to bump into each other, significant others and children in tow. Maybe we’ll even set playdates for our children.

After all, a lot can happen in a decade.

28th

When I was five, I wanted to be six so I can officially go to “big school” and have classes in the afternoon.

When I was 10, I wanted to be 12 so I can start having sleepovers, and so I can start collecting Archie comic books and Sweet Valley Twins (because I thought the only good thing about Sweet Valley Kids was Lila Fowler’s tantrums).

When I turned 12, I wanted to be 13, so I can finally get rid of my glasses, go on the After Six diet (you know, the one that forbids you from eating anything beyond 6 PM), and go to high school.

When I turned 13, I wanted to be 15 so I can go to prom.

When I turned 15, I wanted to be 16 so I can graduate and be with who I thought was the love of my life. He lived eight hours and about 400++ kilometers away. We both spent our allowance on call cards and cellphone prepaid cards, and on shipping fees for the little trinkets we’d buy each other, like teddy bears and cards and books and bracelets and black notebooks and metallic gel pens.

When I turned 16, I wanted to be 18 so I can legally buy liquor, vote, and be able to introduce then-love-of-my-life to my entire family. I was also hoping the zits that invaded my face would magically disappear on my 18th birthday because hey, didn’t girls turn into princesses when they turn 18?

My first ever real love and I broke up when I was 18. A few months after, I met the man I thought I was going to marry. We were both guests at a party – he offered to bring me home. I said yes. He started courting me the next day. I fell in love. We became a couple. He proposed to me a few months shy of my 19th birthday. I said yes.

When I was 19, I wanted to be 21 so I can graduate from college and do whatever the hell I wanted to do with my life – my dad’s only requirement then was a college diploma. I wanted a high-paying job, a nose job, the freedom to stay out as late as I wanted, to be able to spend my money however way I wanted to. (I spent my first paycheck on a pair of jeans that cost more than a month’s worth of rent. Tsk tsk.)

When I turned 21, I wanted to be 25 so I can marry my then-fiance without having to present a signed parental consent. I thought that marriage would allow me to spread my wings and embark on the adventures my parents never allowed – culinary school, putting up my own business, quitting work full time and just being a doting wife to my husband. I was ready to give up my dreams of world domination for something simpler – to simply be with the man I loved and do whatever it took to keep him happy. The medals – all 14 of them – that weighed my chest and neck down heavily on my high school graduation day didn’t matter, nor did the people who all said I was going to be The Next Big Thing. I had new dreams.

A few months before my 25th birthday, my ex-fiance was confined in the ICU. I thought I would lose him forever. He survived (thank God), but I still lost him, in a way. Life never went back to normal. That same year, I lost him forever. And it felt even more painful than losing him to death because he’s alive and well, but no longer mine.

When I turned 26, I prayed for death to claim me. I  never prayed harder for anything in my life.

I woke up the next day. I thought, okay, thanks for failing me yet again, universe. That was the day I lost faith in wishbones, shooting stars, birthday candles, and 11:11.  I decided to just suck it up and power through – maybe my luck will change when I turn 27. “Powering through” meant hours spent in the kitchen in a chef’s jacket, venting out my frustration and sorrow in chopping up vegetables and carving meat. It meant hours spent walking, running, and sprinting, imagining that with every step, I get closer to leaving heartbreak behind. It meant popping pills so I can go to sleep, popping a different kind of pill to regulate my mood, and eventually, yet another pill so I can feel nothing. It seemed to work.

That same year, Love reappeared. He looked different now, definitely not what I was expecting. Younger and more robust, but just as beautiful as I remembered. Quieter, deeper, simpler, kinder, more sincere, less selfish, more understanding, more loving – just what I needed. Love taught me to love myself more – he taught me that loving him didn’t mean I had to love myself less. He reassured me that I was beautiful, even if I no longer resembled my 18-year old self. Love reminded me to breathe, to smile, to laugh, to pray, to stop and smell the flowers (literally). Love gave me flowers even if there’s no occasion. Love made me chocolates (because like me, he knows his way around the kitchen). Love always told me he loved me, even on days when I’m impossible to love. Love stayed. Love grew.

Love encouraged me to write again. Love walked, ran, and sprinted with me everywhere because he didn’t want me to be alone. Love held me while I cried – he understood that I was going to be broken for a while, but he was willing to wait until I’m able to mend myself. “Take your time,” Love said. “Take all the time you need.” Love smiled at me every chance he got. Love stayed with me until I regained most of the fire I lost. Until my smile reached my eyes. Until I was brave enough to sleep alone. Love gently got me off the pills. I slept peacefully at night. And I definitely didn’t want to feel nothing.

Love helped me resurrect my dreams. My 27th year was spent chasing dreams. I caught most of them. I now have a clearer idea of what it is that I want to do with my life – you know, work that doesn’t feel like work, passion, and all that jazz. It wasn’t easy. It was exhausting, I cried out of frustration a lot of times, and my patience was tested more times than I thought possible. Money didn’t come as easily as I hoped, I had to forgo purchasing clothes and gadgets and trips, but it’s okay. I never felt more alive.

I turned 28 last week. The week before that, I had an anxiety attack – one so bad I almost went back to taking pills to feel numb. I wanted to go back to being 18, so that I can have my 120-lb. body back and so I wouldn’t have these fine lines under my eyes. I wanted to be 18 again, so I can make smarter choices, so I can be more focused with the things that really mattered. So I can politely tell my ex-fiance, thanks, but no thanks when he asked if he could give me a ride home. So I can love less. Maybe I’d fare better. Maybe I’d be happier.

My 28th birthday celebration was the simplest I ever had. But it’s okay, because I was surrounded by the people I love and I felt their love. They lent me their spine because they knew I need to be brave. When I blew out my 28th birthday candle, I didn’t wish.

I said thank you, because everything seems clearer now – like how everything makes sense after a deep slumber.

I realized that I had to lose love so I can find it again. I’ve learned to forgive myself and to value myself more. I’ve forgiven the people in my life who hurt me and left me – because really, at the end of the day, they’re also just trying to be happy. It wouldn’t be fair to them if I forced them to stay if they weren’t happy with me anymore.

I realized that I had to fall down many, many times, so I can stand back up again. I may have battle scars everywhere, but I’m proud of them. I had to lose things and opportunities so I’d know their value. I had to get knocked down to my feet so I’d remember to kneel and pray.

I said thank you because while I may have fewer friends now, the ones I have are more than enough. Like me, they’re older and wiser. They tell me the things I don’t want to hear, but desperately need to. We don’t bullshit around each other – we don’t have time for that.

And as I ate my birthday cake and polished off my plate of spaghetti, I realized that I like the person I became and that I had to go through the last decade so I can be the person that I am now – a little worse for wear, but braver, (hopefully) wiser, more responsible, and more comfortable in my own skin. I am not exactly where I want to be – it will take a few more years before I’d be happier with the figures in my bank account and on the weighing scale, but I’m working hard at getting there.

Yes, I’m getting older. Yes, there are wrinkles. Yes, my metabolism is sloooow. But that’s okay – being older also means being able to afford a good pair of running shoes and a jar of anti-aging moisturizer.

La vita e bella. 

A quick love letter

My precious one,

This is just to let you know that every time I think of our future life together, I weep. Not because I know it will be difficult financially or otherwise – hell no, I am prepared for that, and not because I dread being with you and the possibility of saying goodbye to my life, as I know it.

Oh no. I weep, because I am overcome with so much hope. You see, I’ve been rejected way too many times, I often wonder if I’m always going to be on the outside looking in, and if I’m ever going to belong to someone, anyone. Something, anything. Having you in my life more than makes up for all the rejections and all those moments I felt alone and unloved. The life you promised me is not extravagant. It will definitely not be easy all the time. I know that it won’t be the fairy tale that I always dreamed of as a girl. There will be tears and arguments, and there will definitely be days when we’d wish the earth would swallow the other so we can have the peace and quiet we crave.

But know this – in the short amount of time I’ve known and loved you, you have given me peace. And for the first time in 28 years, I am genuinely cared for and cherished. You’re the reason I know I have done something right, because my prayers were answered and I now call you mine.

I used to dream of mansions and expensive things, of a walk-in closet filled with everything a girl could ever want, of a husband with washboard abs and devastatingly good looks, of trips out of the country at least twice a year, of literally rolling around in money. Having those things would be nice. But what I pray for every night are the things you promised me:

That simple home in the suburbs with a small garden, so you can pick fresh flowers for me everyday, and an herb garden, so that I no longer had to buy the bottled stuff from McCormick.

Restaurant-quality meals every time you’re in the kitchen, chef’s jacket optional. Fresh loaves of bread every morning. All made with love, because you promised me you’ll never make me go hungry.

Children who we both hope will have my complexion, eyes, and lips, your body build, your hands and the way they effortlessly transform random things into works of art, my diction and public speaking skills, your way with words, our passion for food and life.

Your love, which you said will always remain faithful and fierce. And which I hope will always be generous and patient.

Thinking of the life I will have with you makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world, not because it will be perfect or grand, but because I will be with you. And I know that with you, I will always be at my best. I will always be happy.

You will never know exactly how grateful I am that God gave me you. To quote Rose Dawson in Titanic, you have saved me in all the ways that a person can be saved.

My love, I can never begin to express all the emotions I feel for you. Words will always fail me. But let’s start with the simplest way –

I love you. Madly. Passionately. Always.

Your Myka

Halfway there and living on a prayer (and meager savings): My thoughts on being in my late 20s

Five years might not seem too significant, but it can mean the difference between being allowed to screw up and try again, and making the safe, responsible, practical choice because you’re simply running out of time.

When you’re 22, you can be as bold and brazen with your choices – you can afford to squander half a payday’s salary on drinks and a new pair of shoes, party till 5 am and report to work at 9 on the dot, plow through your day nursing the mother of all hangovers, and buy things you don’t need to impress people you don’t like, without causing a dent on your wallet or at least, without suffering a serious case of buyer’s remorse.

At 22, you can afford to have meaningless flings and go home with whoever’s hot and willing to put out, without having to worry about being made to stay the night or being bothered with mundane morning-after details, like cuddling or breakfast or exchanging numbers and names (your real one, including your last name). You can flit in and out of relationships because it’s the stage when you’re supposed to be “collecting and selecting.” It means being able to be in a relationship without having to give all of you, without investing too much, because that would be too “insane” for someone “so young.” It means not worrying too much about your partner’s financial standing, your ticking biological clock, and serious, scary things, like marriage and babies.

When you’re 22, it’s okay to not know exactly what you want to do with your life. You have an excuse to be confused and hop from one company to another, with the hopes of stumbling into your dream career, or at least one that’s stable and pays well and hopefully does not derail your health and the rest of your life. It’s okay to starve and live on experience and wrong decisions, because it builds character. There will always be people willing to help. You’ll be okay.

When you’re 27, however, you’re older and a little worse for wear. Your gut will be bloated from having too many bottles of beer. Your skin will show signs of fatigue and lines will start to appear under your eyes. You will regret spending your money on useless things when you’re forced to fork over 10 grand on a jar of La Mer, now classified as a necessity. Whether you like it or not, you call it a night at midnight – either because you have pressing matters to attend to, like deadlines in the morning, or because you’ve reached your alcohol quota. If you exceed said quota, you’re forced to call in sick the next day because you’ll discover that you will need an entire day to recuperate from a night of debauchery and indulging in copious amounts of alcohol.

Your metabolism will slow down and in some cases, go MIA. You’ll start thinking twice before you upsize your fries and soda, because you know that even an hour on the treadmill won’t burn off the calories. You will discover that creme brulee, salted caramel ice cream, and decadent chocolate lava cake topped with vanilla ice cream are all synonymous to “forever on the hips.”

You will panic at the state of your savings account and wonder where your money went. And then you will look at your cluttered walk-in closet and curse because you’d literally see peso signs emblazoned on every single item that makes up the mishmash of really expensive stuff in your room. Or maybe you’d find your stash of photos taken from all over the world – trips funded by Christmas bonuses, overtime pay, and thirteenth month pay from when you were younger. You will marvel at how wide your smile is. How fearless you were. How ready you looked to take on the world.

You’ve lived your life. Most of it, anyway. To quote Katy Perry, it’s a blacked out blur but I’m pretty sure it ruled. Damn. YOLO it is.

Being 27 means finally growing up.

It means being wiser and being able to make more responsible choices. Yes, even the ones that border on being boring, such as setting aside a fixed amount for bills and (gasp!) savings before considering your living (and partying) expenses.

It means investing in a pair of sensible heels you can actually walk in, or a pair of jeans that won’t fall apart at the seams after three washes. It means having a basic three-piece suit, an honest-to-goodness white button down shirt that you can wear with anything, and being able to do up your tie.

It means laying off the burgers and shakes in favor of vegetables (even the boring ones like bitter gourd and okra) so you can be healthier. It also means putting off drinks with friends and late nights in favor of spending an hour or two running or at the gym. It means taking supplements and going to the doctor regularly for checkups. (Ladies, this includes the yearly pap and breast exam. Yes, I know it can be painful. Woman up. It’s for your own good.)

It means being home by 9pm and being in bed before midnight so you can make it on time for your day job, bright and ready to take on anything.

It means driving less recklessly and checking what’s going on under the hood regularly so you don’t get into vehicular accidents. And making sure that your health insurance is up-to-date. It means resisting the urge to give in to road rage every time some asshole cuts in front of you or refuses to let you overtake. (Consequently, it also means mastering the art of arguing wisely when caught by traffic enforcers and always having a spare couple of hundred or so, “just in case.”)

It means starting to carefully plan for your future and putting your money in places that will let you earn more, such as a business venture or further studies. It means rethinking every single purchase and being brutally honest as to whether you need another pair of shoes. (Hint: it’s always no, unless all your previously-bought pairs are ruined beyond repair.) It means saving up for a place you can call your own. It means moving out of mom’s and dad’s and renting your own place (if you haven’t already – and fine, you’re allowed to throw a bender JUST THIS ONCE, and make sure you don’t ruin anything lest your landlord kick you out).

It means learning how to commute – and by commute, I didn’t mean parking your car at the nearest mall and taking the train to work. Like actually knowing your way around the city on foot, via jeepneys, buses, and tricycles. It means consulting Google Maps before you hie off to some unknown place, or if you want to take it a step further, learning how to read a real map and having one in your back pocket all the time. It means taking cabs less – and if you do take one, learning to take the cab’s plate number and company name and SMS-ing it to someone AT ALL TIMES.

It means being an optimist at work. Instead of always having something to complain about your job, find more reasons to love it. It might not be the perfect job, it might not be what you want to do, but times are hard and a job is a job is a job. Suck it up. You are extremely lucky to have one. It pays the bills. Respect it. Come to work on time, meet your deadlines, do your tasks the best way possible. Over-prepare and over-deliver – it’s way better than coming up short. Be nice to everybody, but don’t be a pushover. Don’t be the subject of office gossip, and never, ever start one. Defer to your boss, but make sure to speak out when you’re in the right – respectfully, of course. Love your job so that it loves you back.

Let go of the unhealthy, including friendships, habits, and romantic relationships. Surround yourself with like-minded individuals, those who choose to see the good in you and encourage you to be a better person. Let go of that lost love, because there’s a reason why it never worked out. Let go of people who only keep you around because you’re a convenient fuck or a human ATM. Let go, and let live. Breathe.

While we’re on the subject of relationships – if you’re not in one, do not rush to be in one. You don’t have an expiration date. Yes, it sucks to not have someone. Yes, your biological clock is ticking. But that’s not reason enough to settle for who’s there, just because “there’s no one.” Even at your age – especially at your age – you deserve to be with someone who will make the heartaches, the tears, the arguments, the sleepless nights, the stress, and the unwanted pounds worth it. You’re allowed to be choosy, because you deserve the best. And it’s time to have a (preferably bitchy) witty comeback to the question, “So when are you getting married?”

If you ARE in one, nurture it, whether you’re in it for the long haul or not. Remember that it might be the one you will be in for the rest of your life, so you should take care of it and cherish it. Learn to choose your battles – being right isn’t always the objective. Winning isn’t, either. It’s okay to not have the upper hand at all times. It’s okay to be the first one to say sorry. It’s okay to say “I love you” at random times of the day. It’s okay to open up about your fears and worries. It’s okay to have less sex and more conversations. It’s okay to let your mind wander about white lace and promises – and who gets to change the diapers. Never, ever half-ass anything. The heart is too precious and too fragile to be played with.

It means going home more and calling your folks at least once a week just to catch up and let them know that you’re okay. It means having a genuine interest in what Mom and Dad do outside of raising a family. It means being friends with your parents and enjoying their company. It means going on long drives and family vacations – and not being embarrassed at having your siblings and parents as your travel companions. It means being ready to do anything to bail out a family member in trouble – even if it involves withdrawing half of your savings, beating up someone to a pulp, or using your connections. It means acknowledging that at the end of the day, your family is your most solid, most constant, and most important support system.

It means taking more risks – calculated ones, that is.

It means praying more.

It means having more faith in yourself.

It means acknowledging that you will make mistakes – and being ready to stand back up every time you get knocked down by anything.

It’s not a walk in the park. Being an adult takes a lot of work. But all of us have to be a full-fledged one, at some point. It’s always best to do it in style.

Hi, I am Myka. I am 27. Slowly, surely, excruciatingly, I am learning how to be an adult. I don’t know if I’m doing a good job at it, but let me get back to you in three years, when I’m in the big leagues – my 30s. Until then, I will contemplate on the biggest question of my existence, one that I ask myself every single day: Leave tonight, or live and die this way?

I have a feeling my answer will involve getting down and dirty, because that’s what adults do.

My Greatest Heartbreak

Thank you, Jared, for making me realize that I need to go back to my first love. I have been writing for a living for almost half a decade now and I haven’t really written anything for myself. It’s time to do it now, and for myself.

Jared Hael Plata

Let me share with you something very personal. You see, I haven’t shared this with anyone. Well, not until now.

Sorry but this isn’t about a girl. And no this isn’t about a boy either! Common now! This is about something that was constantly at the core of my persona. This story is about stories. What I’m talking about is writing.

Backstory time…

When I was just a snotty little boy, every time my mother would go to the market she would buy me comics. Funny Komiks. Back then, this comics can be bought for under 10 pesos (I think). So, while my playmates were getting potty trained, I learned how to read ahead of them.

This provided me a steady diet of stories. And there is one particular series in Funny Komiks that I went bonkers about: Combatron. Combatron made my childhood colorful even if its ink is of…

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His Turn to Cook: Herbed Pork Chops and Pumpkin Mash ala Glutton

Because every girl deserves to be with a man who cooks. A post paying homage to the boy and his cooking, soon.

For the Love of Food

It wasn’t love at first sight. Oh, far from it actually.

We were the best of friends. On Friday nights, we’d have long conversations that started at dinner and ended at breakfast, then walk off the calories around the city’s bustling commercial business district.

Two things remain constant in all of our BFB (best friend bonding) nights, and, later, our date nights – really good conversation, and really good food. We’re both extremely passionate about food – reading about it, discussing it, cooking it, plating it, and yes, eating it.

We’re both willing to travel to inaccessible parts of the city just for a good meal. We can eat anywhere – mall food courts, hole-in-the-wall joints, diners in red light districts, 24-hour silogans full of men nursing hangovers, roadside carinderias,a makeshift dining area at an old house’s garage, the restaurant of the moment, ramen houses with strict rules, steak…

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Blaming it on your smile

I wondered why he hasn’t been giving me drawings and love letters like he used to, and then I found this site – a blog that contained his words of love, for me. Pardon the cheesiness.

Yup, I have an awesome boyfriend.

Letters to Myka Rosales

I think that to a certain extent, you can blame everything on your smile.

Blame on it what we are now.

Blame on it the fact that I cannot feel at ease without your hand locked with mine.

Blame on it my propensity for giving you a peck or two every now and then, wherever my caprice leads my lips, and wherever we may be.

Blame on it my ever conspicuous displays of affection.

Blame on it everything.

In fact, I blame it for all my random expenses, for reducing me to a sucker who cannot dare say no, and for converting me from a jaded sceptic to a religious believer in love.

I blame it for the overwhelming urge to see you after work, to go home to you, and end to my day in your embrace.

I blame it for us pulling through all the hurdles that we…

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A love letter, just because

Hey you,

I just want you to know that you’re awesome.

You’re the best ice-crusher, dishwasher, shopping and hand bag holder, sous chef, food taste tester, lullabye singer, back scratcher, full body masseuse, handyman, navigator, plumber, floor sweeper, human alarm clock, living, breathing post-it, life-size teddy bear, and toilet seat cover put-downer in all of mankind.

For the first time in my life, I’m the one who gets to be spoiled with delicious, home-cooked meals. I’ve gotten so used to preparing meals for the men I date (and everybody else for that matter), I’ve almost forgotten how it felt like to relax and bury myself in a good book while somebody else holds down the fort in the kitchen. I must really love you, because I allow you to commandeer my kitchen on a regular basis – and that includes using my prized knives. I don’t even get mad if you use up a lot of olive oil (you never remember to simply coat the pan with it) or disorganize my spice rack. You make the best scrambled eggs, stir-fried dishes, and herb-rubbed pork steaks.

You hold me when I’m scared or having nightmares. You amuse me when I’m depressed – even it it means looking incredibly silly. You allow me to have dessert every so often even if I’m supposed to be totally sugar and carb-free. You make sure I’m safe when I commute to and from work. You give me tight hugs whether or not I need them. You give me a sobering dose of reality whenever I get ahead of myself and get caught up with my fantasies. At the same time, you encourage me to dream and escape reality whenever I feel that the real world is sucking out all the life in me.

I often ask myself what the hell I’ll do without you. The answer is always – I’ll just roll over on one side and wither away. (Kidding. I’m tough as nails, you know that. I’ll definitely survive. But it will be much harder without you.)

I love you. And yes, I forgive you for working late.

Breaking free

“If you want to fly, let go of the things that weigh you down.”

I just did. It cost me, well, practically my entire life. Everything I have. Everyone I know. 

I’m saying goodbye, not just to people I’ve known forever, but to abuse, emotional or otherwise. 

I’m saying goodbye to pain and hurt and the feeling that I never belonged. 

I’m saying goodbye to always having to force my way in. I’m never going to fit right in anyway – I’ll always be an outsider. 

I’m saying goodbye to being used. To never being valued, especially since I am no longer an achiever. 

I’m saying goodbye to always feeling left out. 

I’m saying goodbye. And no one can change my mind. 

I’m saying goodbye to people who will never value me. Who will never respect me. Who will always look at me as a colossal disappointment. As a failure. 

At the end of the day, I only have myself. It’s up to ME to regroup, rebuild, and recover from this catastrophe. 

I’m doing this because it isn’t healthy for me to keep staying and associating myself with people who condone abuse of any form. At the end of the day they do not own me.

I’m done, and nobody can stop me. Even if it means I have to do it alone.