just minishorts.

You know, when I broke up with my first boyfriend many eons ago, I thought that all that would be the end of the world. I had this horrible conception that I would never be kissed again, never be hugged again, never be told that I was loved ever again. I guess the shock of being told that, 'You're unwanted,' leaves a huge mark on you, and true, I don't think I'll ever forget that utterly helpless feeling of being unwanted.

Oh no. Being unwanted is a horrible, horrible, horrible feeling.

A few months later, I was struggling to find that crying self again in several futile attempts to continue crucifying my soul. Now I'm the kind of person who prides in her determination and ambitiousness. When I was discarded, in a morbid, sadistic and self-degrading manner, I continuously told myself (and the whole world) that I was undeterred, it was entirely my fault, and that I would wait it out. I even made myself a vow and announced it to the entire world (via this blog, no less), that, 'Even if it takes five years, I'll wait it out.'

Four months down the road from the separation, I was bouncing up and down again, and took on a completely new and unexpected turn down the path of life.

I've done some funny things during my attempts to overcome the breakup, and in fact, the entire cathartic process of getting my feelings and emotions out of my system was a terrific disgrace to womenkind. Like a begging loser, I was writing stories, and building huge puzzles to give to this person who was my first ever attempt at a serious relationship; I went to classes like a zombie, and in between meals I was vomitting and wailing… Those who saw me then thought there wasn't a cure for this.

In an obvious consequence, word spread, and among old friends, there was this rumour that went around like a bushfire, all over the town was the news that poor old minishorts loved this pekyong very much, and like every other gossip in town, there were two sides to the story, and the icky bits in between. It wasn't malicious, but it was slanted to the side where, 'She won't ever get over him.'

Don't mind my feeble efforts in presenting to the unintiated, the prelude to my receipt of a surprise parcel. Or rather, my mother's receipt of a surprise parcel.

So the tale goes that when I was 'trying to get my man back', I promised myself to write the dude an e-mail every day, a letter every week, to 'touch his soul and get him to come back'. This didn't work out. Within a month, I became lazy, and my daily communication attempts depreciated. Eventually and surely, it became a passing phase, and from, 'How are you? Please write to me and tell me you still care about me,' the content of my e-mails became, 'There's a book in your cupboard that belongs to me, it cost me several months of saving and pinching to get RM120 to buy, and I want it back.'

And then, I met a few people, fell in love again, and even the memory of that book evaporated. Occasionally I would think about my experiences, my heart would ache a little from what could have been, but the present life was far too exciting to concentrate on mourning a vicious past, and I just didn't bother anymore.

Now, I don't recall the last communication attempt I had with this particular Dr. Tan, but I do know that when I try to talk to this person, I'm doing so out of curiousity and sincere care. This is a person, whom, prior to all the boyfriend/girlfriend process, was a very good platonic friend, and we used to go to the same class together and bitch about the same teachers for many many years… Although sometime in the middle of last year, when I discussed exes with the guy I was dating then, we came to the conclusion that somebody probably still walks around with an engorged head and thinks that I'm still trying to lure him into my arms again.

My receipt of my RM120 pre-varsity revision text (which doesn't mean a damn thing to me now), wrapped up in brown parcel paper, and stamped with several stamps and a SS17 address, further confirms my suspicion. Mum received a Poslaju call from our royal parcel service sometime before CNY, and she forgot to tell me about my package until the weekend just past. And oh boy, was I fuming.

This has been an insanely long post, but I have many things to say.

The question is, 'If you stay in SS17, and the girl stays less than 20 minutes by car at 60 kmph, would you wrap things up in a parcel and send it to her, sans any notice, or e-mail, or phone to say, "I've just sent the book back to you, I'm sorry,"?'

We have many mutual friends in between, some of whom are still in separate contact with either one of us. Wouldn't it be easier to pass it to one of our friends, thus, saving the cost and trouble of packing things up in a badly wrapped package, and pass it to me?

Or if you're truly forgotten, why not just keep the book? Heck, the other day, I just threw out photocopies of your birth certificates, and your father's death certificate xeroxes (his dad passed away when he was a baby), and I completely forgot about it.

Define an engorged head. I would call that guy my very first boyfriend. Someone who was a great deal of fun while we were dating, but who eventually turned out to be a dickhead who dumped me on Valentine's Day, whom I eventually found insignificant enough to be pushed into the recesses of my mind, but sometimes, I still miss and think about, and…. pity.

Because at the end of it, here I am, extending nothing but a curious question of, 'How are you?', with some obvious need to tell him that, 'I'm grown up, doing well in life I believe, and sometimes I think about you, and it's so funny how young we were and we really didn't know much about commitment and stuff…'

As for him, he can only manage a brown paper package, wrapped up in string, (and because the idiot didn't wrap the book in cellophance before wrapping it up, the rain and water got to it, and the pages are damp, and sticking to each other). And because, I'm an English editor, and English editors don't really need secondary school physics textbooks anymore, the book is probably going to go straight to the Salvation Army. But noting the condition of the text right now, it would probably sit more comfortable on top of a recyclable stack.

And that, my friends, is my story, told long.

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