We've all heard and devoured the classic trope involving the shenanigans of a jock, a princess, a nerd, and a criminal. Although who knows of the trouble capable of ensuing when The Breakfast Club isn't PG-13 anymore?
That's the 2007 freshman batch...
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The shrieks of the doorbell must have drowned out under the acoustics of Michael Jackson's Baby be Mine paired with the assault the crooked strings of my guitar have been facing since the past two hours. Another one of those snuggly weekends, eh?
While I wasn't particularly keen on picking up this silver bad boy sitting by my bed, I couldn't refuse the crate of eggnog cartons in my refrigerator. An unhealthy couple glasses of that Christmassy drink, partnered with a loaf made out of expired gluten free flour— as shameful as it is— was my tipping point to get rid of Grayson Records' rejection mail and do what I do best. Even if that best is, going town on eighties rock and pop, once your girlfriend cancels dinner plans with you. I am trying to find a way to be devastated about it, but there's a small part that is undeniably ecstatic.
I guess we can't change the dynamics of our relationship in a span of three months. Although if our stars comply, we can work around it for the rest of our crappy lives. Now I know it spells cringe, and I might as well acknowledge the cheesy romantic I have come to be— but not while I am strumming to a rockstar's penned lyrics about cuddling. As a matter of fact, I continue hitting the notes until the guitar chip breaks down to the size of those toy parts, children under the age of three might choke on.
Putting the brassy guitar aside, I get up from the bathroom floor and simultaneously slip out of the Garfield print sweater I have been wearing since yesterday. It came as an early Christmas present— more like a secret Santa thing, since there wasn't any greeting on the glazed wrapper— and, well, I decided to give it a try. I didn't predict so, but it turned out to be surprisingly cozy, and I really don't want the fabric to reek of a lethal combination of lisol and pest removal medicine. To be sitting in an empty tub and composing a tune can seem worrying, but only if there is a glass of rum by the side. I don't sit here to wallow in sadness, but purely because the acoustics are a little something.
Before I can convince myself otherwise, I put the sweater down in the laundry basket, which for the record, has been gathering up less and less damp shirts ever since our lives bordered on normality. Now I know that 'absence of prison threats' isn't as high on the scale, but I will take anything at this point. Not to leave out how I began having a balanced breakfast along with the regular shots of espresso on top of foamed milk. I applaud myself for the improvisation, until I spot the coffee beans sitting the same as I left them the last night.
There is a chance that I didn't switch the filter on, and just dreamt of pouring steaming black espresso in the teeny glasses. Or maybe, this is a sign for me to venture out of the house and try one of those brunch places, George never seems to stop blabbing about. I am glad he is out of that phase of self pity, and is instead focusing on turning onto a different hobby— especially if that means, I have to stack them up in my room and take down the wall of trophy, as my mother used to say. It's been a pain keeping them up, whether it was when I used to torture myself to keep up with the captaincy, or now when I have quit the team for good. I didn't regret even one bit of the decision, but began mulling over another thing altogether, when the memory of Mia crashing the cheerleader squad the day I played my first intercollegiate, came out of nowhere.
