Sunday, December 28, 2008

Kanto

I hate waiting in a kanto for a friend who takes all the time in world to prepare fresh for a night that would inevitably end up with us wasted. I see strangers walk pass by. Some are way too cute to be legal. Some look decent. Some papable. Some looks like they smell, or smell like they look. Some grungy but undeniably a whole amount of sexy, almost bastusin. Most of them I find utterly delectable.

I've been wondering lately if my standards are getting way too low. It seems that I find guys no matter how unkempt they are, attractive. I try to justify their appeal and only ends up thinking that the only common denominator is that piece of tool that dangles between their legs. The problem of course is that the same thing can be found between mine.

I refuse to consider that I've become too blinded and immune to the opposite gender to find they are getting scarcer by the second, too sex-crazed to the same, and then worst yet, too cynical to be sensible-- to make sense. I know I'm only thinking within, bounded and trapped, in the context of traditional societal norms. So I try to think of what I want/need/can do but I know there's a danger to that as much as always asking for the what-ifs and what-might-have-beens.

And my thoughts wander to bittersweet text messages, to worn out love letters in my grandma's baul to sickeningly saccharine blogs. Did I already say I hate waiting at kantos?

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