Time for Some Romance

romanceI don’t much care for romance — well honestly, I hate romance.

I can’t bear to read through sensous words of love in which the boy and girl look into each other for exactly eight seconds before falling for each other. Remember this the 21st century and our protoganists are computer programmers and classical thinkers; statistics matter.

Why don’t heroes gatecrash parties anymore? And fall for the daughter of their sworn enemy? What’s wrong with falling in love with your first love’s cousin — when your first love didn’t reciprocate in the first place?

This is why I don’t read romance. Because it’s too primitive disguised as modern.

But since everyone from my mother to my brother and my cousins (which was all, actually) couldn’t shut up about Love Story, I decided to read it.

Don’t get me wrong; when I say Love Story, I mean the love story, by Erich Segal.

Unsurprisingly, I loved it. And something in it will stay with me forever.

What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died?
That she was beautiful and brilliant
That she loved Mozart and Bach.
The Beatles. And me.

That made me read through the book, and that made me open my mind to romance. In novels, I mean.

I’m a Fool

fool

Sometimes all you need is assurance that your foolishness will pay off. And since it comes from Roald Dahl himself (or so I hear), it must be true.

What a comforting way to start the weekend!

Look Down, What Do You See?

look down

When I looked down at the street, I only saw dirt and gravel. And then this crack caught my eye.

Just a tiny crack, the beginning of a bigger chasm.

It wasn’t a Tuesday, but it was good enough for Tuesdays of Texture.

Speaking of Sentimentality…

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sentiment is a double-sided dagger. ​As much as I love being sentimental about tiny everyday things, I also regret being ever so emotional.

I know I keep bringing this up, but it’s all about my mother. She annoys me more than anyone else can — or will ever dare to; she calls me at awkward times, keeps repeating the same questions every day, and she’s always popping up everywhere –even when I wish she wouldn’t.

It’s annoying to have a mother that cares so much. ​But it’s painful not to have a mother that cares as much.

Perhaps it’s because she was always around me as I grew up, but I’ve grown comfortable around her so much that I take the liberty to shout at her without feeling guilty. She made a huge blunder not curtailing that habit of mine. Still, she takes it all in as I shout at her, because she knows I mean not a word of it.

And once I hang up and stare at my phone, realizing how much she must love me to bear with all my mood swings, I can’t help but feel evil. With her being everywhere — even at the back of my mind while I wake in the morning — I care much about her.

I don’t know about her, but every twelve hours, I have an internal alarm that goes off reminding me that it’s time for her pills. And despite having alarms in her phone, she forgets, and nods her head solemnly as I chide her for abysmal medicine memory.

​That’s the trouble with caring too much — it hurts me when she’s hurting. I’ve seen what she goes through when she forgets her medicine, and it pains me to even imagine that pain.

And it gets even more annoying when she just shrugs it off with a ​toothy laugh. On one hand, I love watching her laugh, and on the other, I’m furious that she’s so negligent.

She checks with me five times a day if I had eaten my ​proper meals, and in the proper time, but she never takes her medicines in the proper time.

Urgh! Her sentiment often puts me off. So much nagging and caring for me, yet not much caring for herself. But it also makes me call her back a second — or third — time, to apologize in a small voice.

​After all, moms are the best, aren’t they?