and so here I am at 1 o’ clock in the morning, eating pancit canton (always a good idea) and waiting for Ariel (yes, the detergent) to finish ‘cleaning’ my dirty laundry. No, I don’t have a washing machine. I live in a tiny studio apartment and I wash most of my laundry with my hands, some I pay the laundry shop downstairs to clean and try not to lose.
“you don’t know what ‘third world’ is,” he laughed, as I half-joked, half-complained about my third world life.
I have a roof over my head, enough (and sometimes actually healthy) food in my small cupboard, a job that pays the bills and sometimes allows me some luxuries (a massage, trips to the beach, new shoes, a 24/7 internet connection). I don’t have a gun to my head and I don’t have to beg for water.
Maybe third world is just a feeling?
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But this bright spot.
He touches his face a lot, a nervous tick, and I want to reach out and cover his hands with mine, you don’t know how beautiful you really are.
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My mother is excited. I’m excited too. AND terrified. But she doesn’t have to know that.
36 years old. It seems like it was only yesterday I was hanging out in her office, asking her about her office mates who were pretty but still single. How old are they? Thirty. Why aren’t they married yet? They’re old! Oh, how times have changed. Now I know exactly why.
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Things I thought about while doing the laundry:
3. first world, ‘modern’ [whiny] feminists (proud feminist, but seriously, not all men are creeps)
4. parents, don’t forget to let your children climb trees
5. remember what life was like, before we learned to filter it?
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love liberates.
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sometimes I put my arms around myself to keep me from exploding.
sometimes I just eat chips.
when running with scissors 