Searching for Ever After (or, why Disney has ruined my life)

Sleeping Beauty

There is one blinding instant of pain, so unlike the prick of a needle, which then dulls, bit by bit, to a pale shade of agony. The wound never shows through your skin, and so no one ever kisses it to make it better.

And so instead, the morning comes. The world itself is an endless dream, and the thorns are covering you, bit by bit.

The voice begs you to wake up.

Cinderella

It’s a frequent daydream, that masked ball. All conversation stops, and their eyes as one rest upon you. A path is made, and he walks toward you; you feel the heat of his hands through the silk. In perfect silence, you dance.

But the scene changes, to just you and him, and as the clock strikes thirteen the gown vanishes, leaves you as you are, in jeans and a wrinkled blouse and with panicked, forlorn eyes. The world falls down, and eternity shines in his hand. Then he pulls you into a silent, perfect dance.

Long live the Labyrinth.

Snow White

Growing up a kid with a paler complexion than most, it’s no wonder they started calling you that nickname. It did strange things to your sense of beauty, especially when you found out that one incarnation had a sister.

Princess fair, white as a sheet, flight over fight, passive and menial, blood and lips, sleep and death.

You would have preferred to be Rose Red.

Beauty and the Beast

Upon seeing a picture, your mind goes several ways.

You can rail at the blatant typecasting (the ignorant villager as the villain) and bemoan the evils of the bourgeoisie while sipping at your Starbucks and typing at your Mac, and this is why you can never have a boy with like passions or background.

You can sigh at the golden dress, the pretty ballroom, and plan the dream proposal, and this is why you’ll never click with a man that isn’t gay.

You can hold the supposed intellectual standard to you heart, and this is why—

OMG FURRIES.

The Little Mermaid

If you should turn to sea foam, so be it.

As long as the right person kisses the girl.

Couldn’t have said it better myself

Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate (Dante)
You are just itching to use this line.
You imagine, perhaps, a dark, dank cave, or maybe a seemingly innocuous door. And then a slight turn to your fellow spelunkers, or fellow lawyer-hopefuls, and that muttered, ominous phrase.
Most will ignore you, some will roll their eyes, and maybe one or two kindred souls will recognize your wit and reply in kind.
Your sister laughs when you voice this wish, and calls you pretentious.
You can’t help agreeing.

Come to my woman’s breasts, and unsex me here! (Shakespeare)
Once, you were shoved into your friend’s ample bosom for a class recitation.
It is not an experience you care to repeat.

O pagsintang labis ng kapangyarihan, sampung mag-ama’y iyong nasasaklaw! (Balagtas)
Of the four national texts you were mandated to study, you can only remember one stanza of the second.
(Because the one with the bird features a hero that gets it on with three sisters, the one with your name has absolutely no likeable heroine, and the sequel gets the rest killed).
It’s ironic that’s the stanza you remember; the idea of anyone shouting about “the power of love” makes your hackles raise.

I know ever so many people, and until one of them dies, I couldn’t possibly be friends with anyone else. (Charades)
You’re not the type to utter flirtatious rejoinders to straight, attractive men (the non-threatening homosexuals, though, you’re free to tease). Despite all outward appearances, you’re still that shy overweight girl who thought Prince Charmings were real, and is afraid of them morphing into misogynistic bastards.
But your stories and writings are littered with characters who whisper sweet nothings to each other under the guise of urbane wordplay.
Maybe when you’re older, and away, you can slip on a little black dress and slip into a dark crowded bar, sip on some bubbly and raise your eyes to a beautiful stranger.

Though we cannot make our sun stand still, we can yet make him run. (Marvell)
Your soul cries for adventure, for wide, open spaces. For your life to be something more than a circumscribed path to mediocrity.
And so, you do things, from time to time. Silly things. Stupid things. Once-in-a-lifetime, wow-you’re-insane, dear-lord-you’re-amazing things. Anything to alleviate the mundane.
You sometimes think, if your reckless immolation results in the utter ruin of what makes you you, you think it worth the sacrifice.

Fail, or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation

1. Laptop
As if sensing there was no more need for frantic thesis typings, it died a day after graduation, and only resumed life two days ago.
The isolation has been good, you think. Detoxifying, even.

2. Dye Job
You casually mentioned to your mother that you wanted a change. Maybe Barney purple. Screaming red. Not quite taking the drastic-cry-for-help-hint, Ma opted for "golden brown." Despite this, however, the herbal mixture didn't take, and it's only in direct sunlight that you can see a reddish tinge.
Go figure.

3. Maturity
The fist slide of your hand on smooth, silk-flesh makes you cringe, and it takes you back, back to that awful moment when you were thirteen that you've never told an adult (that you subsequently spilled to your cousins and closest friends), and that less traumatizing but still mortifying moment when you were twenty (two years ago).
You cringe, you stammer, you rock back and forth, and the come to your rescue, saying you're still a minor.
In essence, you probably are.

4. In sickness and in health
You vomited, had irregular bowel movements, and the aches and the pressure seemed as saturated as your sweat. Then you got better, as you do every month.
*
Four years ago, you underwent this very same exam, with hardly any changes. Well, you think in retrospect, at least there aren't any leering frat boys.
*
A week later, you vomit and egest again.

5. Knowledge
Is power.
Not that it's apparent, aimlessly channel-surfing documentaries and science programs with your body lying supine on the bed, slowly melting from the summer heat.

Friendships

1. You guys missed a spot in my back. Grind the knife hard and deep, okay? I enjoy the pain.
2. After all these years, I guess I don't merit even one sorry.
3. I really, really, really miss you.
4. My God, you are shallow.
5. In retrospect, you did a real number on my psyche. No wonder I have commitment issues.
   
6. One of these days, I'm probably going to irritate you too.
7. For all the defending I do, I wish someone would for once stand up and stick up for me. Which is an entirely wrong mindset, because hey, independence and courage and inner strength and all that jazz, but Lord, I wish someone would say I'm worth fighting for, and worth being a true friend to.
8. Stop making me cry, dammit. I get the worst case of sniffles.
   

T.I.I.S.

(There's supposed to be a picture with this, but hell, I'm far too lazy. And my sister has my Tablet. Oh well. Let the neurotic bitterness commence!)

Wedding dress

Because your sister had her prom night, your mother placed a bridal magazine on the dinner table. Because it was there, you read it. And because you read it, you now find yourself obsessed with the topic, scrutinizing brightly-colored saris, frantically searching for the Labyrinth gown in the dream sequence, sighing over Grace Kelly’s lacy profile as she wed her literal prince.
This is rapidly becoming alarming.

Text message

You’re happy for her, of course. After roughly two years of declaiming and cursing lovelives—lack thereof—you’re glad at least one of you will finally no longer be TIIS.
Then again…

Bitter

Upon reflection, you conclude. Mr. Darcy is an elitist ass, Heathcliff an obsessive sociopath, and Crisostomo Ibarra (cough, cough) a misogynistic playboy who is obviously a vehicle for the desires of his creator. You blame Byron—the cad—for your weakness to pretty antisocial bastards in books and television and movies, and rightfully scorn true love as nothing more than a construct devised by Western, he-man-as-hero-woman-as-weaker-vessel, hegemony on society.
The conspicuous stack of curly-scripted books below your bed says otherwise.

Virgin goddess

Sometimes, in your (not so) brief moments of delusion, you wonder if you’ll stay in this state forever. Constrained by your chaste upbringing and paranoia of anything remotely approaching commitment, you’d like to run forever, like Artemis illuminated by the moon, or as Athenaeternally wrap yourself up in books and justice.
Your namesake, you also note, is the Maiden of Celtic mythology, the proclaimed queen of the fairies.
Since high school, your friends have been calling you Immaculate Mother, for reasons best left unexplained.
It appears you’re stuck in the tower.

Dream

When all is said and done, however, you still fall to pieces upon waking.
Your lips still tingle from the imaginary kiss.