THE BOY HE LEFT BEHIND | ON HOLD

2| redemancy

CLICHÉ: A HATE COMMENT. My jerk of an ex ruined, fucking destroyed the idea of platitude sweetness and inane joy that came with the cliché corniness of love stories that I've read and watched. Here were some examples. 1.) Of kisses under the moonlight shared by the jock that fell in love with the nerd. The comment: It was always about the nerd who was a victim of the soccer team (or any other sports club that involved 20-year-old looking high school jocks, patriarchy and abs.) Then the jock and the nerd would end up being partners in a science project. (It's always a science project! Why can't it be literary or history?) And boom it's the start of their cute, uncordial love affair. 2.) Of bubbling bottles of champagnes and plates of Richart's Intense Valentine Gourmet Chocolates bought by the billionaire CEO that fell for his secretary. Was I the only one fed up with the naïve green-bean fresh graduate associate twink, the ever monochromatic green-eyed sexy bosses, the ridiculous Mullen & Mullen pinstripe single-breasted suits, Clive Christian X Perfume Spray for Men and personalized Cross Classic Century Lustrous Chrome Ballpoint Pen? Absurd! 3.) Of the helicopter rides of the cold-hearted dominant that'd fallen heads-over-heels with his shy and innocent submissive. Don't even breathe a word about their inhuman stamina, faucet and animals in heat metaphors. Oh, don't even start with the Alphas rejecting their Omegas then seek them in the end because of their heat. Or the tragic love of a damsel with a cancer and her happy-go-lucky hipster 'cancer-free' (emphasis on cancer free) beau but died in the end! (Yes, John Green I am absolutely talking about you!)

"Relax Luigi, they're just fictional." My dad told me when I ranted this to him last month. I told him that fictional or not, no one ever deserved a happy ending. If I was not happy then no one would be. I refuse! This would be a shared unhappiness, I mean sharing was caring, right?

Wow, someone woke up in the wrong side of the bed today, you might say. Well, there's a complete viable reason why I was acting like someone pissed and shit in my Crunchy Nut today. And no, they weren't the Cinderella birds twittering. (Be real people, this is London, the sparrows and jays around here were too stressed and too polluted to tweet. The only bird tweeting this early would be Twitter's blue bird.) (That sounded so wrong in so many levels.) (Also, that was a lot of twittering for two sentences.)

Ever since Ja- that good for nothing bastard (Gahd Luigi, can you not say his name just for once!) I loathed clichés and everything that had to do with it. Hence, you could imagine the annoyance/bitterness/homicide-tendencies that took over my system when a buzzing from my nightstand pulled me out from my dream of a naked Brooklyn Beckam and Nelson Angelil. (I hate alarms buzzing! I lost count of all the books that I have read or movies that I watched that started with the blaring of the protagonist's alarm clock after Vanilla Sky and The Hangover. And yet here I was looking like a perfect snapshot of a privileged white twink waking up from chapter one of a freaking teen fiction.)

Luigi, it was just a buzzing alarm clock! I chastised myself. 5:45 AM was way too early to be annoyed with the whole world. That would've been a stretch even for your brokenhearted self.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

It took me a minute of blinking away the slumber in my eyes and calming myself, to both situate the sound and the possible reason of its unwanted fracas. And another minute to restrain myself from throwing the damn alarm clock on the nearest wall. I turned to my bureau and sighed as the credits of the movie I was watching last night rolled in on the laptop I left open. Wow, I still couldn't believe that I was spending my summer break smelling like coffee, pizza and depression watching The Choice numerous times on my bed. This was why I kept getting flashbacks! (Yes, I totally blame Travis and Gabby for all those late nights and tears!)