Tonight,

even before i was drunk, i told a dear friend, “Your blog is the most boring blog, there isn’t honesty at all. You only write what is safe for others to read”.

Her face instantly became the universal language of hostility — she wanted to kill me, perhaps so badly –, and yet, she fixed her eyes on the smoky floor, and moved them up, slowly and quietly, for what seemed a moment of displeasure or worse and longer, it became very clear that i shouldn’t have said what i had. For she deserved a happier night than what i had turned it into.

For a moment, i waited for her to demonstrate and launch some raw emotional rockets to destroy my ego. I waited for her to scream at me so it could be used to validate that she was an honest soul, a mortal person like who i and everyone was. But alas, she hid herself behind a see-through curtain, and it was not difficult for anyone to tell what colour of her occasional smiles that night were. Mostly black, darkened not with secrets, but annoyance, pure hate towards what i told. One could easily tell she didn’t like it.

“Jestina,” i spoke, “you know what i want for Christmas?”

“What?”

“Forgiveness. Would you forgive me?”