Friday Memoir

Like any other fifth day of the week, my dilemma always revolves around my closet. I would try everything until my first pick will still be considered best. I would choose among the curlers, straightener, and blower, and whether its better be black or blonde. Sometimes, I pity my hair for being over-treated. Also, I would hardly decide if black or red or silver 6 inches heels would better fit my fashion statement every red-numbered night. Plain nail paints or with Swarovski crystals? These bracelets or that? Those earrings or those? Darker shade of lipstick or pink? A black contact lens or gray? Good I stick with only one scent of perfume. I am more dangerous than a venomous snake. The more exposed skin, the more poisonous I am to an insecure woman or to a sizzling-hot cutie. Even without my lips saying a word, my physical body would tell eve rything you may either love or hate. Yes, I would stand an hour or two in front of my mirror visualizing my imaginary crown for being everybody's favorite. No. I am every woman's nightmare. I hate that typical scene with my mom when she steals my car's key and tell me not to go with my 'provocative' outfit. This ass is so passé!" She would try to stop me with her 1000+ words delivered in a minute. Ugh, that is mom's talent, though. Of course, me riding in a public cab is discreditable. No choice, I would always pretend of backing out from the party and wait until that old woman fell into deep slumber, call my sissies or anyone in my boyfriend list to fetch me. Oh, now I claim expertise in going out through my room's window. The first time I did it got me a scar on my knee; good thing concealers are invented. A night of ecstasy starts as I enter my world with all eyes staring at me. I always get confused whether it's me they are looking at or that something below or above my bellybutton. Whatever. That loud music coming from the disk jockey's playlist is the sweetest harmony ever. Until, nobody hears the ticking of the clock. Losing gravity, everyone is floating. That sexy beat lures everyone to our own gates of heaven. It's like giving everything tonight for tomorrow it will be over. For the remaining days of the week, we consider everyone dead until all souls rise up from their tombs as Thursday's clock strikes 11:59pm. That smoke from the cigar has become part of my perfume as the contraceptives do its job to prevent that stinking-smell thing to travel into my system. I was baptized when I was sweet 16. Yeah, if you're sacred, you're boring! One thing more, if you slap a guy who just says he loves you that Friday night and hears him saying the same line with another girl the next Friday, you're damn pathetic. Life is a total shit; you must be a bitch to survive. Oh, what a beautiful Friday memoirs. Tonight was a different story. My dilemma doesn't revolve around my closet anymore. I stare blankly at the mirror and notice that my crown is no longer on my head; somebody else might be wearing it now. If only the contraceptives didn't fail. If only abortion is my best friend. Next Friday, I'll start hearing a cry from a baby girl. Maybe, her tears are regrets of having me as her mom without even a husband to consider. When she grows up, is she also going to worry whether a black or silver or red heels is better than the oth er? Is she going to have a hard time choosing what shade of lipstick she'll wear? Is she going to escape from her room's window the time I fell asleep? Is she going to consider herself a venomous snake, too? I fear that heredity will dictate that someday, Fridays will also mean the world to her.