Sunday, August 20, 2006
♥ The Tuna's Story

Before I say anything, yes I know, I shouldn't be here because I'm supposed to be studying and mugging and doing the Chemistry homework my Chemistry tuition teacher has assigned to me. (Yes, I have a Chemistry tuition teacher, a damn enthu one in fact. So enthu I feel like slapping her sometimes.) But I happened to read something before I went offline just now. Something I wasn't entitled to, supposed to read.

And I did come to Lonehearter to blog about what I shouldn't be reading. But I closed the browser without publishing the entry, because I'm not sure if she still reads my blog. She hardly comes online anyway, but, I don't know. It pains me to read those things you know, although they were blogged more than half a year ago.

People, I'm not pms-ing. I'm just in a bad mood. I'm angry with myself.

So I closed that browser before I read on further. It didn't seem right to be reading something that was not meant to be read by the rest of us. But still, I couldn't sit still to even watch Mr Bean without thinking of what else she could have blogged about. So I came online to finish reading. And yes, I finished reading already.

Sorry dear, I read all that you've typed, even when it's not meant for me. But there were parts that involve me. And I just had to read it. Perhaps that shows that at least I care.

And it all brings me back to those times when I felt like the sandwich they pack at 7-11. For one year I thought I got out of that sandwich plastic and am a free tuna walking around. Because I've decided to ditch one side of the bread and just stick to the other. Actually, I haven't. It's just that one side of the bread calls out to me more than the other. And I'm a, er, mute tuna, who waits to be called upon.

And it's because you thought I've ditched your side of the bread, the way I thought so, that you've stopped calling out for me, the tuna. And that's why the other side of bread and me, the tuna, goes on walking and walking and walking, all the way to Cheers, while you're still in 7-11.

(Don't mind me people. I know you don't understand what the fuck I'm saying.)

The tuna just kept walking with that one side of the bread. And soon enough, everybody's used to not seeing the other side of the bread with the tuna. And the tuna forgot about that old side of the bread it used to be with back at 7-11. Or the tuna thought it had forgotten, since it was only natural to forget about something you haven't met, talked to, or even see for a long time.

But baby, I've never turned to the dark side. Whatever your idea of the dark side may be. My phone still rings, always ringing, but you're never the one to call. For someone to be there for you, why won't you call?

And I thought, of all people, you should know best what your one phone call can do.

It has been 8 months, and I've no idea if that's still what you're feeling.

(I left the text cursor flashing for a long time. Because I sort of lost track of what I wanted to say. I finished typing the above in less than 5 minutes.)

My fault your fault her fault their fault. Why does it always come back to this? Whose fault is it that you can't get along with them? And whose fault is it that I can get along too fucking well with all of you? So much so that it seems, so wrong now.

And yes, I still remember the route to take to your house, I still remember what to tell the cab driver when I get on the cab, I still remember how to help you order roti prata, I still remember how I messed your aunt and your mother up, I still remember your dad and his fucking important car, I still remember how your room looks like, I still remember that fan, those contact lenses, your beds, even your blankets.

I still remember that colour hair spray. I still remember all your bloody soft toys, and their names. I still remember the colour of your shoe rack, and your dad's black shoes on the top shelf. I still remember you telling me there're centipedes in your house, and your father catches them every morning, and how one ended up in your pants. I still remember your study room, your study table, your com. I still remember that little drawer compartment where you kept your bracelets and your other accessories.

I still remember your squriming at the thought of dangly earrings, just like I did. I still remember how to go Orchard with you, how we walked down the streets, how we took those bloody neoprints, how we went MOS after exams, how you and I ordered corn soup.

I still remember how we bought our colouring book. I still remember how I used to call you every night. I still remember all the little things you said. I still remember how you shrugged your shoulders in bus 265. I still remember how you laughed at me. I still remember how you showed off to me those things that matter to you so much. I still remember how I cried at the back of the class because I had a quarrel with you.

I still remember how to play in the rain with you.

But babe, don't you see. It's just that I don't do these things anymore. Because you never did ask. And I just kept walking further and further away. While you're still stucked in 7-11. Stucked in believing the whole world's against you. When the other piece of bread has long forgotten how to hate you. You're still stucked believing nobody likes you.

I think it should be pretty obvious who I'm talking about. At least she would know. If she ever reads this.

I'll send her a sms later.

Wait, I don't remember how to sms her.

Haa. No, I still do. But I don't think she remembers how to sms me.