Poop: Life Cliche Alert

This happened last Friday and believe me when I tell you it sounds like something out of a cliche romance novel. The worst part about it is – I’m the main character.

As a budding writer, I have learned – or at least have an idea, as to how to avoid cliches and stereotypes and when and how to use or respect different archetypes. One of the main reasons I write is because I get to manipulate the lives of my fictional characters while my personal life remains untouched and boring – just the way I like it.

BUT NO. I HAD TO DEVELOP MILD BUT FOND FEELINGS TOWARDS ONE OF THE MOST POPULAR GUYS IN SCHOOL WHO’S MORE OR LESS ALREADY ATTACHED TO A CLINGY POPULAR GIRL, ADMIT MY FEELINGS FOR HIM IN A LETTER CONVEYING THE MESSAGE THAT I DO NOT HAVE THESE FEELINGS ANYMORE, ONLY FINDING MYSELF FALLING. AGAIN.

And fallen I have.

Forgive me for the abused use of capital letters. It was the only way I know to express how infuriated I am with myself.

Earlier this year, I felt myself slowly going soft and fond over this guy we shall now know as “Guy.” And because of a past experience of getting burned before, I prepped myself through self-intervention – through Chris Pine, Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hiddleston, and plenty other lovely creatures that would never cause me as much turmoil as Guy is currently doing. To no avail.

So I finally accepted the fact about Guy and my feelings for him, but made no notion to tell him that, except maybe my best friends. FRIENDS now because the demented idiots kept encouraging me.

So later came a long break from school – therefore a long break from seeing Guy, and I took the opportunity to do another round of self-intervention. It worked for a good two months and I was plenty fine and dandy.

Here comes plot twist number one: As soon-to-be-graduating seniors, we are given a whole day to reflect on what we have done over the course of our life and bury hatchets and start anew. Before this day, we are invited to write letters to anybody in our year (anonymously if desired) and place them in their envelopes. Of course I gave Guy one, but emphasized that it was a thing of the unspecified past. And like all my letters, I asked NICELY, that he keep the contents of the letter secret, because such is the purpose of a letter – confidentiality. But he let everybody on the bus he rode read it, only to have my friend witness the whole thing to tell me the day after – when I came back with the second batch from our day of reflection.

So it was then I realized that getting over Guy was the best thing that ever happened to me, because he was just one of the many sons of a cursed half-troll. I then proceeded to hate him the in the next few weeks, interacting with him as much as I used to – in the most minimal way possible.

Plot Twist number two: He apologized. Almost kneeling, (and trust me, I’m a good reader) VERY sincere, and explained what happened: He wasn’t expecting that little piece of my honesty and was reading it on the bus. He reacted, got his seatmate’s attention, and the letter spread from there. He didn’t know that I found out, and that I was pissed about it, and he wanted to say sorry for the whole thing (which he did, multiple times, in between sentences). Then he said that he also liked me as a sister (hahaha, Familyzoned). This of course did not have a huge effect on me whatsoever, but what happened much later was a huge addition to my theory of my life turning into my own worst nightmare of a cliche love story.

Here comes the main event: Where I come from, the government requires several units of CAT Training, mini boot camp if you will, and believe me when I tell you it is stressful. So near end of that day’s tactical inspection, the battalion closed in smaller intervals for a short discussion and I excused myself to go to the bathroom. Along the way, I felt my vision go spotty and later experienced a total blackout only to feel a slight awareness that I was mobile but not on my feet. Pressure in certain areas suggested that someone was carrying me, dead corpse bridal-style and my breathing felt heavy. It was like having a moment to know what Hazel Grace (The Fault in Our Stars protagonist) felt like living with crappy lungs. I forced my eyes open and saw my limp and pale arms across my body and raised my head, with great difficulty, to see who had the misfortune of carrying a 50-kg heavy crappy body.

And as all cliche stories go, you could guess that it was Guy.

Did I have butterflies in my stomach? No, I didn’t have caterpillars for breakfast.

Did my heart beat rapidly? No, I was experiencing a phenomena where my heart rate’s quite lower than normal. I fainted. Sheesh.

Did I see sparks flying around my knight in camo colors as he carried me to my salvation? No, my vision was blurry and spotty.

Did I like being carried? For all reasons intended, no. Okay, I liked it but just for a little bit.

See? It’s as though I am definitely doomed to a cliche life. And I strongly object to that. I can only hope these crap feelings will die down very soon…

Meanwhile, I shall resume living my life and will from now on avoid the telltale signs of a coming cliche moment.

Till next time dear reader…
If you managed to read the whole thing and if you did, thank you for caring enough to finish reading this post.

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