“Meh. Wala ka naming alam na gawaing bahay so you’ll never be a good housewife”, I told you once while talking about how you see yourself in the near future.
“Gusto ko yung mayamang housewife na right after maghatid sa school ng mga bata, shopping agad or spa. Dapat kasi meron namang katulong” , you argued in reply.
That right there is the reason why I think you’ll never be a plain housewife – because you’ll never ever be plain.
Your demeanor is far from being simple. You are a walking conspiracy. You’re a Megan Fox wrapped in a Zooey Deschanel’s body. Your frail physique hides the fact that you’re as feisty as four black ghetto girls combined. Your innocent face disguises the maturity and sensibleness you have. Your good girl image gets you out of trouble for being so adamant and brutally frank. Plus, you can out eat any blue-collared job worker at any given day of the week.
And you’ve taught me lessons sometimes I unwillingly have to learn. Albeit the bullying part, you’re the only girl who could shoot down my ego and send me crashing back to reality in a jiffy. You’re that girl who’ll tell me how goofy my hair looks and how I never should wear white ever. We could talk absolutely about everything; no matter how trivial they may sound – from pesky officemates to our greatest love and how eating chicken could turn you gay.
You have been my security blanket (aside from my beard), my source of “confidence”. I’m your pseudo-bf when he’s not around, your source of “wisdom”. We’re partners in crime, Bonnie and Clyde. And I’m afraid that’s going to change sooner than I would be ready for.
I dread the fact that one morning, I’ll walk into an office and I’ll never find you there. When that happens, I’ll be the saddest hairy guy in the world. I know it’ll be for the better. After all, we need to spread the awesomeness that’s us. You’ll definitely leave a gaping void in my heart that no other girl could ever fill. But until that day happens, you would still be my flat-chested bitch who’ll never ever be a plain housewife.