Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | August 4, 2006


Tell ya a secret.

I don’t post my blogs.

I’m a complete idiot with computers.

The first time I heard about the internet, I thought it was a complex system deep sea fishermen use to haul in more fish.

So what I do is write a blog, mail it to my beloved baby sister and she posts it.
Yup. She knows my password.

So if anybody reads anything here they feel maligns their person, don’t just sue me.

Sue my baby sis.

Anyway, this is my attempt at posting something on my own. Singlehandedly.

And whaddya know?

Tucked in some byte of my computer’s memory is an essay fit to celebrate the occasion (Did I spell that right?).

Something I cooked up for a friend who managed to transform several tubs of lard into a mean muscle mass. That isn’t what the essay’s about, though.

Single blessedness
(For Gerry)

Oh, the joys of being single.

You don’t have to mark important dates on your calendar. You don’t have to worry about forgetting why the hell you marked the damn date after all (Is it her birthday? Anniversary? Time to feed her pet snake? Pick up her mother at the airport?). Imagine the stress you save yourself from.

You don’t have to fidget all day at the cold “Oh, is that so?” she gave you after explaining that you came home late last night because work kept you at the office until 3 a.m.

You don’t have to wonder if she said “yes” to mean “no” or if she said “yes” to make you think she meant “no” when, for the first time, she really meant “yes.” You don’t have to skim through thick, hard-bound psychology books to find out if she’s really okay when she said “it’s okay” after you forgot to pick her up at Starbucks 10 minutes ago. Imagine the mental juice you can save for some of your bigger problems in life… Like deciding whether you should buy yourself a new Fender stratocaster or that Canon Rebel T2 a friend suggested or set your car up with a new sound system.

You don’t have to wait an eternity mumbling “you look great” 50 times while she tries to match her nth dress with her nth shoes. And you don’t have to yank the hair from your scalp when she tells you now it’s time to find a matching purse. Imagine the time you would have saved, enough to flood two pints of coffee into your veins while waiting for the movie to start. A movie you were in time for only because it took her too long to get dressed.

You don’t have to worry about “that time of the month” when she will snap at you for the smallest of mistakes… Like jacking the television volume a little bit too high for her to concentrate on her mud-packing duties. Imagine the mileage you add to your nerves.

Better yet, imagine the things you can do.

You can drink the whole night and go home at 4 a.m. with a six-pack cradled in your arms without having to answer to anybody.

You can spend Sundays on sports, watching basketball, wrestling or Formula 1 without someone nagging you to take the garbage out first.

You can invite your bandmates to your place, crash the joint, play loud and melodiously-challenged music without a cream-faced woman in curlers and robes telling you to tone it down because the next-door neighbor is approaching your front yard with the business end of a cocked shotgun aimed at your windows.

You can stay at a friend’s place overnight, where you can talk about the good ol’ days, waste yourselves with alcohol and weed without having to feel guilty that someone’s waiting for you at home.

Oh sure, you won’t have breakfast prepared when you wake up. But what’s Wendy’s there for?

Oh sure, preparing dinner will be an adventure that could outlast the Lord of the Rings trilogy. So? There’s always 7-11 and its microwaveable wonders.

Oh sure, you’ll have the laundry to worry about. But laundry shops have sprouted everywhere, anyway. Besides, with the economic situation we’re in, it’s easy to find someone to do your laundry for you for a measly price.

Sexual release? Have a relationship with your hand. At least you don’t have to worry about taking it to dinner or to the movies once a week.

In fact, when you’re single, the world is your buffet table.

You can pick your choice from among the scantily-clad women in a bar, flirt with her and pay her drinks, even if you know you’re not going to be taking her home anyway.

Or maybe you might be lucky. Or maybe, just maybe, you might hit the jackpot and find someone really nice… and somehow fool her into actually going home with you.

And then you wake up beside her in the morning and stare at her face. And, as if on cue, she wakes up and stares at yours. And for no sane, logical and explainable reason, both of you smile at the same time, later exploding into little giggles that mimic the sound of a thousand butterflies flapping their wings at once.

And then you realize that this is the face you’d want to wake up to every single day. For the rest of your life.

And then you realize that no matter how many times you’ve read this shitty piece to the point of committing it to memory, you’ll find yourself asking: “What’s so blessed about being single again?”



  1. GASP!


    you p-p-p-posted!
    all by yourself!
    (‘di naman sa nagrereklamo ako. i’d still be happy to post your entries for you. yes, even those which I DO NOT LIKE.)
    i feel so proud of my big bro!
    naiiyak ako!
    ‘di ka ultramegablogilliterate!

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