I never believe in platonic friendship between best friends of tha opposite sex. One or possibly both of em's usually in luv wit tha other. Usually tha one who first insisted in labellin' each otha best friends is tha fallen one and tha one who juz goes along wit tha bestfriend thang tho' he/she duzen care much bout labels is tha unfallen. Tha only thang stoppin' tha un-fallen friend from fallin fo' his/her lovelorn best friend is tha realization that tha fallen is not perfect and that small ounce of imperfection is wut holds him/her back -tha absolute little thang that tha unfallen thinks his/her ideal gurl/guy shud have but his/her best friend duzen have [like looks, a brotherly or sisterly quality, an irritatin? habit] while tha slightly flaw'd other juz goes on dumbly adorin' tha unfallen's perfection.
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Fo’ 2 days, I was outta home in Tagaytay wit ma office mates organizin an invitational golf event fo’ a bank’s clients. Tha 5 of us includin’ moi, Kelmer, Janel, Raul, & a 70-year-old recreational organizer tha boss hired [Mob was busy barkin’ orders & Eypi was busy wit his ear glued to his mobile smoothin’ out everythan wit clients] were tha epitome of factory workers—We cramm’d in an unventilated storage room and unloaded more than a hundred golf bags from their plastic bags & box, placed more than a hundred box o’ golf balls, caps, & box o’ wooden tees inside & then closed em again. We got involv’d in draggin’ down those bags from upstairs & placin em @ tha registration stalls. We then watch’d over em till registration & teein off time’s up so that no 1’d help themselves to them gorgeous Nike bags wit gorgeous freebies inside since registration area wasn’t in a closed area but where people pass by. We also arrang’d tha raffle prizes & trophies & brought em to tha highlands & guarded over em so no1’d touch em & tha wind won’t blow em o’er before dinner –which is hours away- begins. Some of us went down to tha hole or tha golfin area [or wutever] to make sure that tha photographer takes picture of each player & that he gets each one’s names right. [Guess who weasel’d her way outta it & escaped gettin severely dark by evadin’ tha sun’s wrath?] Sumwer in tha middle of tha second day, every’un else was gone & I found ma’self sittin’ next to Sir John [tha heptagenarian] on opposite ends of tha same bench starin at tha plants in front of us. I stared at tha space between us on tha chair & mused on tha space between our ages & why because of it and some other reason perhaps, we were not talkin’ despite bein bored both… then I look’d @ him & made sure he wasn’t dozin’ off like he was earlier then I closed in on tha space and engag’d him in a conversation about… tha Japanese period. After that we sail’d on to otha topics like Raul’s lack of interest in tha job & how tha dollar and tha peso us’d to have tha same value, etc.
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Later at tha Country club where we were manning tha registration booth fo’ tha golfers’ cocktails, rich Chinese granddads came to plague tha place. One slit-eyed lolo simply wuden go home witout exchangin’ his lucky raffle draw prize of leather luggage tag fo’ nuthin less than tha last of tha Ashworth golf bags w/ wheels. [bet he was eyein tha bags tha whole time & cuden resist but approach when he saw only one left] Another one hit on me. [“I take you home! Hahaha!”] Another tripp’d as he got his prize. Another one look’d like Mark Jimenez. Another was really Henry Sy. At tha end of tha day, Mob had splotches of sunburn everywhere, Pol smuggled a Tiffany mug that’s suppos’d to be raffled off to tha golfers, Sumone from tha office had ma heart and I took home a bottle of red wine from tha bar [& a golf kit raffle draw prize & hotel slippers]