Ziplocked Jelly Beans
He was a lot of things.
All at once.
He was the kitten-like creature that rolled out of his bed at eleven a.m. in a sleepy rainy Sunday. He was the hoarder in the Summer, refused to discard anything besides trash, refused to wear any other attire beside his plain shirts that only come in two colours: washed and from-yesteryear.
He was the kind of person that would forget all of his promises of spending time with his friends––including, but not limited to, lunches, dinners, workout sessions, museum-hopping, Sunday cookouts––for his job even though he never forgot birthdays.
Even though he always proclaimed that he was a tech-savvy (his words, not mine), but he kept on forgetting to change the lightbulb in his closet, claiming that changing lightbulbs were not what he did for work and straight up defended that being a tech-savvy was not equal as being handy with lightings.
He tried the hipster beanie (only once), rocking it failingly for a day and then he gave up––trying on the bowler hat the next day, effectively stretching two of my favourite hats.
Drunk himself crazy with my two bottles of strong red wine in one sitting; claiming that he was not drunk, he was, as a matter of fact, totally mad at me for not introducing him to my twin sister that he just met.
Self-taught himself the name of the flowers in this continent alone just to impress his little friends that often came to work, the week after, he studied loudly how to sound like owls.
He downloaded The Sims just to create characters and dress them up similarly to what his colleagues normally dressed, even though he usually degraded them by not letting them to get jobs or even live in a house.
Had himself an idea that he would stash jelly beans (ziplocked and colour-coded) on his jacket pockets as an ice-breaker––he remembered that he had them two years later, they were not beans anymore.
Took me driving to countrysides just to taste how the ice cream was like there––they were the same and he was bummed.
He made me so angry, that I did not talk to him for the whole week, this occurred three times per year minimum.
He taught me about feminism and the best cafe to buy sourdough bread all in one breath.
He was too much to handle sometimes.
A lot of things. All the time.
But he was not mine.
All at once.
He was the kitten-like creature that rolled out of his bed at eleven a.m. in a sleepy rainy Sunday. He was the hoarder in the Summer, refused to discard anything besides trash, refused to wear any other attire beside his plain shirts that only come in two colours: washed and from-yesteryear.
He was the kind of person that would forget all of his promises of spending time with his friends––including, but not limited to, lunches, dinners, workout sessions, museum-hopping, Sunday cookouts––for his job even though he never forgot birthdays.
Even though he always proclaimed that he was a tech-savvy (his words, not mine), but he kept on forgetting to change the lightbulb in his closet, claiming that changing lightbulbs were not what he did for work and straight up defended that being a tech-savvy was not equal as being handy with lightings.
He tried the hipster beanie (only once), rocking it failingly for a day and then he gave up––trying on the bowler hat the next day, effectively stretching two of my favourite hats.
Drunk himself crazy with my two bottles of strong red wine in one sitting; claiming that he was not drunk, he was, as a matter of fact, totally mad at me for not introducing him to my twin sister that he just met.
Self-taught himself the name of the flowers in this continent alone just to impress his little friends that often came to work, the week after, he studied loudly how to sound like owls.
He downloaded The Sims just to create characters and dress them up similarly to what his colleagues normally dressed, even though he usually degraded them by not letting them to get jobs or even live in a house.
Had himself an idea that he would stash jelly beans (ziplocked and colour-coded) on his jacket pockets as an ice-breaker––he remembered that he had them two years later, they were not beans anymore.
Took me driving to countrysides just to taste how the ice cream was like there––they were the same and he was bummed.
He made me so angry, that I did not talk to him for the whole week, this occurred three times per year minimum.
He taught me about feminism and the best cafe to buy sourdough bread all in one breath.
He was too much to handle sometimes.
A lot of things. All the time.
But he was not mine.