post-pangga prospects

Seven weeks into my single status and my friends (Fate included) seem to be on a mad scramble to offer prospects with whom to replace my ex. Even my former beau (seen in photo during our last happy time together--our second anniversary) was curious whether I have already moved on by bagging a new boyfriend. I wonder if these well-meaning people were afraid that my relative calmness meant I was contemplating death—mine or the ex’. I had to ride on and feel the magic of being available in the social market in order to assure people I won’t take anybody’s life including mine and, more especially, to be active the instant a cosmic conspiracy unravels.
First, in random order, there were Papapao and his girlfriend Sari, who unwittingly broke new grounds by introducing me to a schoolmate who, it seems to me, rivals the beauty of Pablo Neruda’s poems.
Second, there was Supremo, who acquainted me with a moreno studying in a nearby university. Not only does N possess a manly face and a body that reminds me of a bikini contestant’s, but his cover of Jay-ar Siaboc’s “Hiling” just turned me starstruck. One time, he texted, “Thanks for your love and concern, Sir…I really treasure it.”
Third, there was this homepage, who threw H into my path. H is an engineering senior from the State University, and the prospective cum laude chanced upon my blogpost on Prof. Marjorie Evasco’s “Origami.” Then, it also paved the way to my encounter with TY, who is among the most sought-after guys in a men’s social networking site. Once, he texted, “I love conversations and I like hearing people express their thoughts in their own way. I rarely meet guys who are poetic and grammatically impressive.” I think I should lobby for the Nobel Prize nomination of www.blogger.com, haha.
Fourth, there was Sir Armando, who tries to bridge me with his equally handsome friends, one of whom is a Piolo-deadringing campus king while the other is a Penshoppe model (the beauty titlist is a special case: he is actually looking for an English major textmate. Who do I thank, the British Council?). Sir Armando’s secret admirer teased that “nagkabalikan na pala sina Juday at Piolo.”
Fifth, there was Padi’s, where I traded numbers with a namesake of my ex. While on the dancefloor, I brushed against him and noticing that the guy’s rather sexy, I smiled a smile that closed the gap between us.
Sixth, there was my librarian friend who sensed that the gay Comparative Literature major who had donated books appeared to sparkle in the eyes while we were conversing. Even RR noticed this, to which case I just mimicked Karylle’s controversial smile in The Buzz.
Seventh, there was this bar where I met the sailor Ansel. His tattooed torso haunted me such that I had to see him again in his southern hometown, where I learned that he will have to come aboard a ship in a few days’ time. I told him to watch Ploning while he sails half the world away.
Eighth, there was my Contemporary American Literature class, in which I got mesmerized by a geek of a classmate. A schoolmate confirms that he, an instructor in the same university, is a hottie among girls and gays.
And there was Puerto Galera, where I saw a lonesome soul wandering in the midst of the midnight revelry by the beach. I followed him, we conversed, and the next thing we know, we were lying (fully-clothed, okay?) in the benighted seashore, clasping each other’s hand. And then, this Swiss guy I took a picture of, with the dazzling seawater for a backdrop. I thought that my word of thanks ended our brief encounter, but he asked for my name, he smilingly confessed to be touring Southeast Asia and it seemed to me he is a lanky version of Chris Evans.
Do I hear my inner she-devil declaring, “Eat your heart out, you who got away!” while conducting a litmus test? Whether or not an asim check is subconsciously going on, I must remember my friend Arnold’s advice: “Be happy even without him.” I’m thinking of changing the pronoun reference to the third person plural. Then again, one can never calculate the insanity of love.