Monday, 22 April 2002 2:34:26 AM

I told him at work today, in the dignified way that I thought I supposedly possessed. There had been no customers, nothing to do, and so I went to the back of the restaurant where he was and I said, in Chinese, "I like you" and stalked away quickly. Perhaps that hadn't been the ideal way of confessing one's love. Neither had it been the right time to the right person.

Feelings are strange. And admittedly, fickle. Although I am not known to change my mind every ten seconds, what was certain was that once this person liked me, too. In a different way, I now assume, for he had apparently decided that he no longer liked me one fine day. Unfortunately he wasn't fickle enough to like me again.

All but one word sums it up well: Damn.

His reaction was fine, though. There was none.

Oh well. So I went to the bathroom, cried, and my friends aka colleagues hugged me. I contemplated storming out, running away, going for a smoke, drinking myself stinking drunk (although seven eleven attendants wouldn't sell the bottle that I swear dropped down from heaven to me… Well, just gotta wait one more year!), not going to school the next day, and the list goes on.

Unfortunately I didn't do anything dramatic. I resumed my routine and waited to go home. And of course, he was sensitive enough to resume his routine of acting like an emotional butthead. Which hurt, but otherwise was fine.

On my way home, I contemplated existence and love. My friend said that I didn't like him; I was merely searching for love. I didn't rule out the possibility of it being right, since I have been here on this planet for 17 years and haven't found The One. Maybe some people would call it desperate, but truly, interpersonal relationships are hard to comprehend, especially if they involve more than one person in separate bodies.

Some time ago I learnt that a girl whom he obviously still haven't gotten over hurt him. It didn't have anything to do with my liking him, though I daresay it contributed to his aura. It's this vibe that he emits that draws me like a fly to stinking Rafflesias. Since I haven't really talked to him except for three four times a day, and the conversation goes like this: "Which table?" "Tabluh Faaarr!" "What?" TABLE FOUR!!!" it can't be his personality that really attracted me. And of course, he doesn't have much taste in dressing; most of the time he looked halfway between a farmer and a hippie-wannabe. His face wasn't interesting, either, unless you're fond of auntie-hairstyles, tiny eyes and half-annoyed-mostofthetime looks.

It seems like it's this hurt that drew me to him. The fact that he seems to say voicelessly each time he moves, I'm hurt, don't come near me.

The funny part is that his friend told me that there was no reaction because he didn't believe what I said.

Ow.

My friend will probably kill me for lifting her phrase, but I simply cannot resist using it: "Salt! Wound! Rub!!!!"

Owww!

Sob sob whimper.

Isn't love supposed to be based on interpersonal interaction between two people? I was hurt countless of times, and quite frustrated because people whom I didn't want to give my number to kept asking for it and people whose numbers I wanted didn't want my number. For him it was quite different, as his ex cheated on him, but I remember that the lead characters in the movie English Patient seemed to fall in love with each other because they were sick of being alone.

And that is, I'm sure, what both he and I are sick of. Being alone. And in his case, probably being lied to, what with the scandal of his ex. I wouldn't lie for the world, unless it revolves around a million dollars or so.

My point? We could have been perfect for each other! The only problem was, I'd just stepped out of the hard shell I've woven and took a small nibble at love, and he'd just stepped into the hard shell he's woven after taking a small nibble at love.

And such is the irony of life. Life is a walking finger that quite figuratively rubs salt into wounds.

Ow!

Monday, 22 April 2002 3:04:31 AM