Whenever I finish cleaning Cupcake, my 3-year old baby, quite oddly, I feel the pride and joy of a mother who single-handedly raised her son — how all those years of fighting for him was so damn worth it.
You probably didn’t know that, huh? Before I was even conceived, gusto ko nang magdrive. HAHA But it’s true! And as the good parents that my mom and dad were, they have, from time immemorial, said no — that I was too young, and that the responsibilities of having Cupcake were impossible in the hands of someone as careless and crazy inattentive as I am. True. But you know how when you want something so bad, you are more than willing to make everything work and happen? That defining moment becomes the greatest story you will relay to others someday.
So I fought for him, for years. And somewhere in the cycle of anticipation, infatuation, expectation and frustration, I lost a portion of myself. The careless, and inattentive me, to name some. But when the moment finally came that my parents bestowed their blessing, the moment I held Cupcake’s steering wheel in my hands, I knew, I was full again.
And how I wish to tell you so much. About the trips pursued without parental consent — without certainty in the mind, the magnificence of escaping — in going away, for a while, in a while — but IDK, it’s just really funny how I enjoy jumbling through words my entire life, but when I’m with Cupcake, I feel my vocabulary powerless. Because for someone who couldn’t talk, the greatest things are defined with just an engine roar.
Wow. Remind me again how soap suds make me so cheesy? HAHA