F-bombing in style

I just binge-watched (and finished) The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel last weekend. It’s a mind-blowing show. For the first time since Gilmore Girls, finally, I have a new Amy Sherman-Palladino show to watch that’s original, witty, and exciting every time. They deserve their Golden Globe and Critics Choice wins. But more on what I love about this show later.

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For now I want to talk about wanting to talk like Mrs. Maisel. Not the posh, 1950s New York slang that comes out of Rachel Brosnahan’s pretty mouth, and oh, what a pretty mouth it is. I’m talking about explosive expletives here. The f-word set out like a bomb on an unsuspecting audience.

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But who am I kidding? I’m not really like that. I couldn’t even speak without shaking like a leaf in public. But I think it’d be handy to talk like that for intimidation purposes like telling off the rude busybody who cut through my line on election day, or to ward off suspected would-be muggers in the UV Express on my way home. That would’ve been really useful, but might not be effective, given that swearing in Tagalog has more impact on ordinary commuters and muggers alike where I’m from.

At the moment, expletives are reserved when talking to myself or having a conversation in my head that goes like, “So, do I give an effing f— about what this person really thinks of me? No? Then I’ll just stay at home and read a book instead, or bake cookies and binge-watch The X-Files. Obsess about Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny’s frustrating and palpable chemistry. Yup. Sounds like fun. Problem solved and crisis averted”.

So, yeah, I’m good with it. At not talking in expletives. I’ll leave the actual f-bombing to Mrs. Maisel instead. She’s the only one I know who can insert the f-word in every sentence that comes out of her mouth and still look classy.

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These old pages

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Revisiting old writing is like rediscovering an old friend after a long time. You’re relearning those tiny details you loved about her–her laugh, her idiosyncrasies, what made the two of you click together in a way that you’ve never had with another.

Old feelings flood back and assault you, warmth as palpable as the naked sun on your face that time you laid on your back on a rock at the beach on a perfect summer’s day, giving in to the pull of the waves lulling you into a sweet sleep.

And sometimes the yearning is the hardest to bear–to be back as you were in that same moment now only preserved in words, reanimated by memory.

But you know you can never go back–to a frenzied infatuation you dreamed would bloom into love, or a kinship you thought would last until you left the bubble of youth. The sweet with the bitter and the tang, the then and the now, all a part of you–occupying a space where you can embrace them both, for as long as the feeling lasts.

In that moment, time doesn’t exist–it’s immaterial. It’s just you and the memories. Suddenly, there’s a thread that runs through you that regret is a thing unheard of, almost, and rejected.

There can be only what you make of, continue to be, choose. You can finally let go and let the old bones rest where they should be. And you realize now with clarity that wasn’t there before: there is peace, there is peace within.