Words tend to be inadequate

1. To own books. To have an apartment that houses an overstuffed bookcase overflowing with fiction, non-fiction, autobiographies, cookbooks, self-help, and cheesy romance novels. Underneath the windowsill overlooking the city, there will sit a leather lounge chair that you picked up at an antique store or yard sale. Here, you will sit and read all your wonderful books.

2. To be loved. By friends, family, men and women. To never be alone on a Friday night. You’ll host book club meetings in your apartment and show off your overflowing bookcase. You’ll do yoga on Tuesdays. You’ll take art history classes for fun. You’ll go on dates. When your world falls apart, you’ll always have someone to call for support. A loving soul will always be there to congratulate you on your accomplishments, give you a massage after a long day, hook that difficult bracelet latch around your wrist that you can never get on your own, and of course, tell you you’re beautiful.

3. To own a unique pet, like a cockatiel or miniature pig. To have a doorman who knows your name. On rainy days, you’ll attempt to watch all the classic movies you never watched when you were younger. You’ll call your mom every Sunday. You’ll write poetry for fun. You’ll read the New York Times at your local coffee joint and attempt to do the Sunday crossword puzzles. The barista will know your order without having to ask. One day, you’ll give up coffee for green tea, but what’s the rush?

4. To be successful. To receive invitations to fashion shows and art gallery openings, but only attend them selectively. To write beautiful things to fall upon the eyes of beautiful people. Your feet will be your main form of transportation. You’ll be the most fashionable person at the office. During lunch breaks, you’ll get lost in Barnes & Noble. You’ll call your boss by his or her first name and sometimes, when a deadline is approaching, you’ll shoot each other a text. You’ll have health insurance and a retirement plan.

5. To do something crazy — like move to China — and then blame it on a fleeting youth. To eat pizza in Rome. To accumulate frequent flyer miles. To, every once in awhile, fly first class.

6. To, one day, reread these hopes and desires, smiling at the things that came to fruition, and wondering what happened to those that didn’t. 

I’m officially down to 38 working days for internshit, which sounds really bearable. I can hardly contain my excitement!!

Things I want to do when my internship ends include:

1. Lazing around/ sleeping in till the late afternoon
2. Watching television series all at one go
3. Going for brunch with my lovely friends (OH BRUNCH HOW I MISS THEE)
4. Staying out till late doing practically nothing
5. Master the art of doing nothing
6. Train my ninja skills
7. Go to Universal Studios again because I have yet to take the Transformer ride (!!)
8. Catch up and have long talks with all my favourite people
9. Whip up some mouthwatering cakes/ food
10. And hopefully, get my ass to Krabi so I can indulge in manicures/ pedicures, thai massages and bask in the sun.

Till then, stay healthy errrbaaaady! I’m developing a cough here :c

I met a girl who described the search for her potential mate as wanting to find “that best friend she could have tons of fun with for the rest of her life.” Sure, her sentiments weren’t Pablo Neruda, but that idea stuck with me — because that’s what I want. I want an every day kind of love, a love like the Happy Days song, but mostly, I want a Sunday Funday kind of love, a love that Van Morrison might describe as “Crazy Love” or Courtney Love might describe as a typical morning. I want a love that is both relaxed and slightly melancholic, like a Nancy Sinatra song, but wild and passionate — but a wild and passionate you can reminsce about over French toast at brunch the next day.

A Sunday Funday kind of love has seen the mess you are capable of on Saturday night (and some of Sunday morning) and has already untagged those photos of you on Facebook. A Sunday Funday kind of love holds your hair while you expel your demons and makes sure none of those sins get on your shoes, because you’re on a budget and can’t afford new ones. I want the kind of love that will go to jail with me and wake up in the same cell next to me with a smile or hold me close in the morning when I’m too tired and belligerent to face the light yet. I want us to stay in bed for way longer than is socially acceptable and trace outlines on each other’s bodies and cuddle while we watch old Saturday morning cartoons.

I want a love that will put on too-big Olsen twins sunglasses with me, while we go to a restaurant, grab a spot with no exposure to the sun whatsoever, find that dog that bit us and snatch his hair off. I want a love that I can share with friends, that is a part of my chosen family and community and that will order another mimosa for me when I go to the restroom to take aspirin and freshen up. I want a love that knows to bring extra aspirin in case I forget, because I always forget, a love that knows that my pain comes from living too hard and loving too hard. I want a love that gives as much as I do, that is always striving and yearning, that wants to face the indignities and vodkas of the world with me. I want a love that believes in my dreams and that is always making up new dreams with me, dreams we swear we will start living out tomorrow after the hangover ends.

I want a love that is by my side, holding my hand and squeezing it tight or playing footsies with me under the table when they think our friends aren’t watching. I want a love that is never too mature to play footsies with me, to blow me a kiss or to smooch like the Eskimos do, a love that never wants to grow up all the way. I want a love that has been through Friday and Saturday and plans to still enjoy the weekend, to make the most out of the little time that life has to offer us. I want a love that is always ready for more, even if that includes another round, but knows when we’ve had enough, when the time for bed and more cartoons is nigh. I want a love that will still be there on Monday, ready to stay in bed as long as life will allow. I want a love that knows the Funday never has to end, that Sunday can last for the rest of your life. 

I want a Friday kind of love.

Fridays are full of possibility. Anything could happen. Sure, the weekend could be a letdown, it could turn out to be just another endless series of hours with nothing going on, when I can’t bring myself to work because it just seems too sad to do so.

But the weekend could be epic. It could be the kind of weekend you spend the rest of your life trying to recreate, the kind of weekend you bring up at brunch ten years later, “remember that one weekend when…” and everyone gets all nostalgic.

When it’s still Friday, you don’t know what kind of weekend it will be, and the air is charged with excitement and potential. This could be the weekend. This could be the love affair.

It could be the one that you compare all the others to, even after it’s over. It’s the one you look back on fondly, the one you hope that someday you can revisit, the one you replay in your mind every once in awhile. Just because it fills you with that warm, fuzzy feeling.

I’ve had the other kinds of love. Sunday love, all comfortable and familiar. Tuesday love with its caring and closeness. Saturday love where you know it’s too good to be true and you’ll wake up the next day and it’ll all be over. Monday love, where you wonder what the hell you were thinking and the next weekend seems to be incredibly far away. Thursday love where it all seems so close and yet there’s so much standing in the way. Wednesday love where you’ve got all this history but feel like you’re in a rut and every day is the same thing.

Forget all of those. Right now, I want a Friday kind of love. I want that possibility and recklessness and passion that only comes knowing there’s so much that could happen, and never mind that sometimes it doesn’t live up to your expectations. Even a bad Friday is better than most Sundays or Mondays or Tuesdays. 

I want a Tuesday kind of love. The sort of thing that involves little dreaming and scheming; the sort of thing that comes paired with too-strong coffee and too-loud songbirds and the drone of the news at 6 a.m. or any time before the sky finds its identity, really. A Tuesday kind of love that isn’t indulgent, one that doesn’t stop the earth from spinning but maybe keeps us grounded in spite of all that uncontrollable movement.

I want to split the bill and pay the bills and not get lost in some unsustainable delusion where the rest of our lives become inconsequential. I want us to be human, I want to argue, I want to take too long in the shower. I want to hear about the horrific lines at the DMV, about a boss who doesn’t get it, about plans to pick up the laundry after work. I want stories of strangers on the bus, of a child who looked lost but turned out not to be, of chance encounters with high school classmates because these seemingly colorless instances are meaningful when filtered through the eyes of someone I care about. A Tuesday kind of love, breathing relevance into otherwise monotonous moments.

A Tuesday kind of love is this: commuting to work knowing that someone cares about what you’re going to have for lunch; understanding that you do not have to be your dynamic, charming, weekend self this time; this time you can butcher sentences and make bad jokes and trip over thin air and it won’t change anything. A Tuesday kind of love is when weekends and weekdays are one and the same, expanses of time where unpredictable, irreplaceable closeness exists, swells, bursts. Tuesday is directionless conversation about things that happened five hours or five years ago; it’s knowing where he keeps his receipts and when he has a doctor appointment; it’s ordering Chinese food or taking his parents out for dinner because they’re in town or forgetting to eat because you’re full of each other’s words and there’s just no room for anything else.

I don’t want to dream through our lives together, don’t want to sleep in, don’t want to put on my sunglasses and pretend that life’s a vacation. The fantasy is that I want to exist in reality; the fantasy is to be there for someone on a Sunday morning but also on a Tuesday night, when the haze and laze of the weekend has worn thin and seems far away as ever. I want a Tuesday kind of love.