Answering the Question. Questioning the Answer.

You know what they say about women asking you something. Most of the time, they ask not to get an answer. They ask because they want to get a confirmation.

It is the match that lights up the fire. Starting slowly, setting up embers, growing bigger and bigger by the minute. This is just the beginning.¬†When affirmation comes in, that’s when the full blow happens. She starts letting off steam that could make you feverish. She may start spewing off little balls of fires that could ¬†seriously burn you. Don’t even tell her that she’s a dragon. You will just make things worse.

But actually, that’s not too bad. The worst thing is when she implodes – preferring to keep the heat inside to the point that it crushes her violently. When that happens, it’s very hard, almost impossible, to go back from where things used to be.

Dada is in dire need of a life.

I am getting old.

My life has been limited to sleeping when not eating and eating when not sleeping. My obsession with chips, sweets, and coke has skyrocketed, making me think if this is an abnormal case of PMS. Except the M doesn’t happen. Before you think that I have a bun in the oven, stop. The M doesn’t happen because of my abnormal hormones, not because of a cute parasite growing inside me.

My eye bags have never been darker, my lips more cracked, and there’s this annoying tick in my eyelids that is in sync with the second hand of my watch.

I have also developed one of the bitchiest disease ever known to man: migraine. That and the skin allergies that leave ugly, red blotches all over my arms, legs, and face.

While everybody’s traipsing their way over to the beach to celebrate midsummer, I am feeling sorry for myself in my sleep.

I am getting old. Or maybe I just need a vacation.