I have a friend, let’s call her Yha. I first met her years ago when I was still working at a different ad agency. She’s a product of a Fil-Japanese father and a very Española mother (when I first met her mom, the first word that entered my mind was prayle), so you can imagine how pretty and sosyalera Yha was. But she was also one of the loudest and proudest fag hags I’ve ever met. Our office barkada was composed solely of fags and fag hags; zero straight guys.
One day a lawyer started courting Yha. I happened to know the lawyer. He was a schoolmate of mine, although we were never close when we were students. But because he was courting Yha, I got to know more about him. “Hey, I didn’t know he’s a cool guy,” I told myself, revising my opinion of him. We’d drag him to gimmicks, out-of-town trips, and the like.
Then one morning Yha told us that she and my schoolmate broke up for real after a fight. Sure they’ve fought before, but this time it was different: too many differences, too difficult a relationship to maintain.
It was only months later that Yha finally revealed to us the real reason for the break-up: in their last fight, BF accused her gay and fag-hag friends of being “bad influences” for her. That got her ire. “Ah ganoon, ha?!” she told him. So she chose us and broke up with him instead.
In similar stories usually it’s the lover who’s chosen over the friends. Hooray for Yha, hooray for true friends.
Nowadays I want nothing at all to do with Mr. Attorney. In reunions, I can easily not pay any attention to him.
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Sis, you’re already Miss Universe; go and play the part. Be gracious and wave calmly at the losers left standing by the side.
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