Why and How You Make Me Happy

I am not one for cheesiness. Things that make my feet touch the clouds, my heart all fuzzy like cotton candy and my head like irridiscent soap bubbles I'd rather say in a bland, straightforward manner laced with what i like to imagine as wit. I believe that human emotions are rather limited; what makes them unique are the reasons that bring them about. And how one expresses them.

I do not like explaining, but in a rare chance and if you call within twenty minutes, you get a free, you heard it, a free bag of nothing. I fancy telling you about why I'm happy right now. I think reading this when we get into a fight again will make you feel better and call fifteen more times until I feel sorry for you and answer the phone. Also, your birthday is near. Consider this as a pre-birthday thing. Although I'm still a little upset about you going to spend your birthday with your frat.

That said, these are the reasons why and how you make me happy.

You are a patronizing bitch.  You are six years older with double majors and undoubtedly, you know more than I do. Whenever I make a blooper that reveals how ignorant I am about everything in general, you correct me, I pout a bit, and then you take your correction back. I find that horribly funny. You know and I know that I'm wrong but for the sake of that little joke between us you lower your pride a little. I appreciate that very much.

Bub hey?

I want to amputate your guitar hand and graft it on my own. Do you know that you make me fall in love with you every single time whenever you play the guitar? I cringed at that sentence goddammit. I must be improving. I bought a guitar just so you could play when you visit me at home. 

You snore cute. I laugh internally whenever you fall asleep and snore within five minutes after you say something. Sometimes it's three. I know I know it's cute now but if and when we get married and shit it's going to be a problem. Because I don't snore. And I always believed in equality. Then again, I hear that couches are quite comfortable places to spend the night in.

I like your eyes. They look at the world in such a delighted manner that I think you are high with pot all the time. Actually it's the first thing I noticed about you, your pair of  eyes. Thank your mom for them—those are hers. If you didn't have them things would have been different, because then you wouldn't be able to look at me like that moment you walked in at Ortigas Park 45 minutes late for our first date. And me sleeping already! 

You take very good care of me. I am a very demanding Special Bother—I want all your time, your resources, and your soul if it's edible. I always assumed, and I still do, that finding a man who can put up with me is a rare thing. I'm fussy and fickle, shallow and mean. I try to sound smart and deep and philosophical but I'm all just made of bitch and rot. And I'm actually not sorry about that because I like myself that way. And you? You can take all that. Thinking about it makes me woozy.

Most important of all, you're not boring. I can share things with you and know that you will understand. Whether I start talking about philosophical or political bullshit (which I do now rarely because I find that it's all really pointless and I'd rather talk about Wowowee or Claudine and Piolo), you get me. I can tell you stupid details about my day and you'd sound mighty interested until you fall asleep ten minutes later—don't worry I find that funny, you snore so. I like it when you don't agree with me and when we argue. Remember that argument about atheism in the cab one rainy night? And the radio blaring out El Shaddai? That one's a funney.

Get a medal and a felt-tip marker. I'll write I love you on it.

PS— luff let's go shopping next week?