THAT OFFICE CHICK

I know a woman. (That's a lame introduction, but fuck it) She's rich enough to buy the world. Dammit, she can buy enough boys for her ego. While I, on the other hand, was a total loser. At some point, she became interested in my total asshole-ness and weird idiosyncrasies. I already loved myself the way I am. I don't need her, obviously—but she needs to KNOW me, gathering from her looks and small gestures.

She knows nothing about me. Yet, she approached my office cubicle and watch me as I do my menial and rather monotonous activities. She just did, and somehow, I liked it. She's really pretty, you know, and she sounds friendly. Tomboy alert, but whatever.

Short history? Hostility once run towards us. I never liked the way she wears red lipstick when she knows I have one. Or my Margaret Thatcher look. And the way she's posting things like "I love books!" when I know that it remotely resembles her character. Damn you girl, I've never even seen you with a book 3 months ago. Thank you for emulating me but NO, you are wearing yet another mask to impress the world. You are fake.

What I'm trying to say here is to LET YOURSELF GO—the hobbies you have, weird mannerisms, craziness, and all—are all a part of you, so let. it. go. It was NEVER nice to face your shame. Nobody mentioned that your fears are way cooler than others, but you gotta admit it. Whatever that is, no matter how horrible that is. Trauma. Panic attacks. Weakness. Faults. Shame. Fear.

Until today, I'm still a part of Narcissistic Victim Support Group. Nobody chose to be victimized by egomaniac jerks, but at some point, I am responsible for my emotions. The whole idea of life is not how to MASK and HIDE who you are, but to brutally confront yourself at your terrifying emotions and still taking action. That, I think, is being brave. No need to go to war.

Now let's go back to that office chick—whoever she is, because I don't know who the heck she is, it's time NOT to emulate my life. By the way, there are times that I get spooked by the way she stares at me. You have your sparkle. OWN IT. 

If you think about it, I am the one who should be emulating you. I can't afford all the gluta shots you bought. My budget cannot afford a decent rebond. I cannot comb my hair because EDSA has an effective way of fucking up your hairdo. All my fashion choices are from a cheap place we call UKAY UKAY. I am waaaay more loser that you.

If beauty queens are really "confident women", then why do they need that petty competition to measure up against each other? 

(plot twist: she resigned. haha.)