That’s why we call it feelings hour

We have broken down countless times before, but the tears we forced back that night held more than the words we shared.

But as one would be trying to put into words the horrible feeling she has been enduring, the other two would giggle or just laugh amusingly, making that highly emotional member of the trio burst into laughter, too.

Yes, this is a crazy friendship –one I would never trade the world for. We would cry and laugh over shenanigans. We could see punchlines, scripts and conspiracy theories in the most random things. But we would talk about dark stuff, too. What dark stuff? Reality. What could be darker?

As we talked the night away, I wanted to just blurt out the cliche that things are going to get better. The problem was, I couldn’t say it out loud and be convincing enough. How could I, when I’m even having such a hard time gripping that bit of an optimism? Does saying things aloud make them real?

We were feasting on a plate of Querida Mia when one said our craycray session could pass for a Girls episode. Then we contested saying Girls is way craycray than this. So I suggested this could be the over-emotional shiz version of The Newsroom. We can call it Media Girls –or just scratch that.

Words of optismism and encouragement are always part of the menu, but most of the time we would say the harshest things, those that only real friends can say on your face, you take two seconds considering their weight, and end up making hashtags out of it. Hashtags like #sluttygirlproblems, #manilagirlproblems or #densegirlproblems. I usually fall on the third. Fine, that hashtag was created in my honor, or the lack thereof.

Our tired brains have been collectively hardwired years ago. How? Let me cite an instance.

One would excitely say: ‘hey, I like someone.’ 

Someone raised an eyebrow and asked: ‘but?’

On cue, a retort would come: ‘There’s no but!’

As if there was  a thought bubble over one’s head, she said: ‘but you like someone who’s offlimits, again!’

Faking hurt and being insulted, she’d snap back a more-than-passionate ‘how dare you’ and the scene would end up in laughter. How did she freaking know? It’s called real friendship.

The art of jumping into conclusions when we are inside our craycray bubble has been a talent we have mastered. We would have concluded how much one likes this person she has been ranting about without her having to confess it. We just know.

We gave each other names, like Dense Number One and Dense Number Two. You can try making an appeal to the title you’ve been given, but there’s actually no point. These girls are right, and you know it. Thank heavens we haven’t reached the point of giving out sashes or certificates to remind each of us who is what.

Periods of comfortable silence seldom come, but every time it would,  someone would just blurt out random stuff like ‘why won’t he just talk to me?‘ And as if it was part of some script, another would muse out loud, ‘exactly! when he said we could talk about it and he feels the same.’

This banter would last for a few minutes, echoing each others thoughts and words, but clearly talking about separate instances and definitely different people. And just how the unwritten script always go, we just end up laughing at our messed up states in this more-than-messed-up world.


Still crazy at 23,


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