I like to travel, read, write, dance and pretend. At the moment I am suffering an insufferable phase of self-aggrandizement, premature maturity and lack of wit.
If you think you can help me out of this funk, write me at idaman.z@gmail.com
Questions questions questions! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? Are you coming to visit or what? How do you say your name again? Where are you from? Would you like to get a drink? Huzzah!
Missy, I don't like you very much. You are blessedly, monstrously, bloatedly fake and your bogusness entertains me that I reciprocate with a fakery so sincere you are duped into thinking it is friendship. Ah, ladygirl, I am not your friend, as I am sure you are not my friend. I would prefer to spend my life protected against your obnoxious presence. Hey, we have continents and oceans of distance between us now, and I'm pretty happy. Huzzah!!
I miss making eggs over easy for you, baby, and spreading jam on your toast. I don't know why I miss that, since we've never been in a kitchen together. Sometimes I think of us in our cottage by the Mediterranean, or in the beach house your grandmother owns somewhere facing the Atlantic. In the bus today I thought of your hands tugging at my hair. It is cheesy and reeks of horniness, but it also makes the day pass quicker, so I let it be.
I am tired of sex and all the work that it entails. I despise the commonplace, uninspiring pseudo-erotica I churn out. I need a passion. But how does one acquire passion? My mind is dull these nights. I would like to do some math.
Ten days into the new year. I have seen some places I never thought I would see, and I struggle to temper the waves of jadedness and cynicism that come with age. I force my eyes to see the differences and overlook the similarities. As the sun set today I look out at the flat lands that promise to go on forever, and think, the sky is different here.
I would like to have toned arms this year. I would like to see you again, baby, in August, and have you trace the quadrants of my tummy. I would like to learn a new thing every day. I would like to save a lot of money. I will be in Manhattan to witness summer change into fall, and I will be in Cuba. I will witness auroras. I will tell you, baby, what I want to do to you and what I want you to do to me in fluent Portuguese, Spanish and French, atrociously accented, of course.
Dear J, why were you so upset when you found out Joel knows where I am but you do not? I'm glad you're upset; I am vindictive and childish. These qualities are fading in me, and you should be proud that you keep me young.
What happens next? How long should I stay here? I am not ecstatic being on my own but I am content with the freedom that I have. I would love to be with my family again, but the thought of going back to a homeland that basically sucks balls makes me crumple up in bed. It is agony making a pros & cons list.
Do you remember, baby, when we walked hand in hand on a dirty pavement and you suddenly pulled me to you with a twirl and a dip, and we laughed like vulgar magpies and no one gave a shit?
Karaoke! Karaoke! The ransom of emotional freedom is extremely high, madam! But I think you think it is worth it, and felicitations are in order! To your deliverance! Maybe some time soon we can toast to my freedom over saccharine sodas and unmellifluous Malay rock!
Till then, I am, as always,
the tortured, unrepentant fool,
the impetuous romantic,
the dilettante world-traveler,
the dark-skinned, dark-souled jangthrobberangee,
Idaman.
