< hmmm... >
I've choked the proverbial chicken before: preened the bird's feathers, stroked the cock, made the rooster crow. But as far as every avian metaphor for masturbation goes, I didn't do it in the darkness of a cinema.
OK, so I can't watch "One More Chance:" I'm not saying that I'd like to jack off to the sight of Bea Alonzo or Maja Salvador (cancelling out John Lloyd Cruz and Derek Ramsey because I don't have a shred of gay in me), but I can't watch anything anymore without being misinterpreted by peons.
The last chick flick I watched in a cineplex was "The Lake House," and boy, did I get a lot of heckling from the friends who saw me there. I won't make excuses out of it, even a lyrical one like: "I'm very sure... this never happened to me before." As much as I'd like to watch "One More Chance," I can't: for one, the plot hits hard on me. For two, I stereotype myself.
There's a lot between a man and his chick flick: a lot in the way of a woman in his arms. Yup, I don't have one: today being the third year that I've been officially single means that I don't have to be forced into watching a movie because my significant other wants to. Adding to my eccentricity (OK, weirdness) is that the last movie I watched with my ex was "The Exorcist."
I am free as a... bird.
Why do I concern myself so much about stereotypical peons, you ask? Basically, I'm a stereotypical peon myself, but I can't admit to it. I am a big fan of Sharon Cuneta, but you won't see me queuing up for a concert ticket, nor would I claw my way to the front of the sea of Sharonians to wipe Sharon's sweat away from her brow. My clamoring for a movie that reuintes Shawee-Gabo (Gabby Concepcion) is something I would rather confine in cyberspace. But even my blog is no longer a refuge for my private thoughts: I'm already too well-known for that end.
Oh for goodness sake.