10 Struggles of Modern Age Hopeless Romantics

In a nutshell, hopeless romantics are those who interpret even the littlest, insignificant signs as the universe’s way of telling him or her to climb that tree. It’s been a long standing part of society and the idea of being a hopeless romantic is not something new, or surprising, to us. However, with the latest technological developments and cultural changes, we have to inject a few new qualities into the persona of a hopeless romantic. Let’s call them the “new romantics” (and no, I’m not pertaining to a certain song by a certain girl.)

  1. Online articles about love are their new manifestos.
    Source: Giphy

    “10 Tips How to Make Someone Fall In Love With Your Ingrown Toenails.” They always seem to follow the instructions found on online articles but not apply it to their lives. They just have to find a topic that they can relate to at the present moment, share it on Facebook, and look for the best item there and use it as the caption (they don’t even bother reading the entire article).

  2. Astrology accounts are the modern love gurus.

    Source: Giphy

    “This week on Virgo…” They almost always believe the predictions they see online. From the color of the clothes that their soulmate is wearing to the length of their eyelashes, they seem to think that tweets from astrology accounts are ultimate and undebatable.

  3. They think that having long conversations on Tinder is something magical.
    Source: Giphy

    They’ve read too much Tinder success stories that they think (and wish, most probably) it will also happen to them. Then when they feel bad that things didn’t work out the way they planned, they will uninstall the app. But check their phones after a few days and you’d find it re-installed; with a fresh batch of matches.

     

  4. Listening to the same Spotify playlists make them feel butterflies.
    Source: Tumblr

    It means having the same tastes in almost, everything, apparently. Listening to the same playlist means liking the same artist, liking the same songs, and liking the same cover art. A match made in heaven.

  5. They also believe that liking their online posts equate to a marriage proposal.

    Source: Giphy


    “OMG! He liked my tweet!” Sounds familiar? New romantics tend to put importance on the fact that the person they like dedicated a few minutes of their precious time to like, or even more importantly, comment on former’s post about a pimple-popping doctor.

  6. They “drop hints” by tweeting or retweeting product posts

    Source: Giphy

    “See this new bracelet I retweeted? Yes I want you to give it to me next month!” Seriously, subtlety is the last word that will come to mind when asked to describe new romantics. Once they see a beautiful make-up kit or a brand new kicks, they will retweet it multiple times, hoping that you’ll give it to them the next time you celebrate your “monthsary”.

  7. Being “Facebook official” is more important than being “real life official”|

    Source: Giphy


    They wouldn’t eve bother telling their friends that they’re official but instead the latter should just “wait for it on Facebook.” Because once they are in “In A Relationship” status. The world stops and congratulates them on this successful feat. The emotional equivalent of this is probably a scientist winning a Nobel Prize and being celebrated for it.

  8. You have to include them in your Instagram or Snapchat stories

    Source: Giphy


    …or else they will go batshit crazy on you. Why are you not including them?! Are you trying to hide something?! Do you have a side hoe that they have to take care of? So unless you’re prepared to brave the storm, you better take a not-so-candid shot of them sleeping (Pro Tip: Do it 50 times, let them choose the best one and apply the best filter. You can also use a dog face filter if you’re both taking a selfie.)

  9. They start getting drunk when they see the person adding other “people”.

    Source: Giphy

    I think by now we all know that on Facebook, your friends can see the people you’ve added. They can even like and comment on the activity. New romantics will flip if they see you add some hottie and will start calling their friends, do background research, and drag the poor thing to dust on Twitter. Trust me, it happens.

  10. They put “Hair” by Little Mix on loop after the break-up.

    Source: Giphy

    And that’s just the first one! Once they find out that things are at an end, they will also play “Shout Out To My Ex”, “Love Yourself” and other songs from the “So Over You” playlist.

It’s not bad if you’re a new romantic of if you know someone who is. They are just fascinating creatures who have taken a step further in humanity’s quest for evolution.

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To The Outcasts

Dear You,

I don’t even know how to start. But you and I, you know we’re both alike. We both associate ourselves as outcasts; merely hollow shells that are needed to meet the earth’s population quota. We may physically exist in the same planet, but we both know that we were destined to be somewhere else. Heck, I bet some of us have already earned a ticket to that happy place. Yes, us. There’s more than just the two of us.

There are people in this world who, despite their best efforts, just don’t simply fit in. They find themselves having a different sense of humor, a different set of music taste, and just basically a different everything. Some have no friends, while some have tons of friends—but they still feel like they don’t belong.

You see that picture of your friends having fun at the beach or at the club, then you ask yourself, “Why aren’t I there? Was I not invited?” The answer to the latter is usually no. No, meaning, you were invited; but maybe you just didn’t feel like going. Or maybe they wanted to invite you, but they know you’d refuse anyway so why bother. They make you feel isolated, even if they didn’t want to. They make you feel unwanted, even if they love you to hell. And maybe it’s not them because most of the time, it’s you.

Don’t take it personally, there’s nothing wrong with being you. It’s just that, we’re unique. We don’t fit in, but at the same time, we do fit in. Kind of a paradox, right? Well, basically it means that we socialize at a superficial level—we know how to “fundamentally” get along with others. We know how to interact (but then again, some of us don’t), but we can only do so by showing the most basic, most socially acceptable layer. We rarely let people penetrate our Wall. Kind of sad, isn’t it? We have so many relationships, and yet, we feel like we don’t.

That’s because we all long for a deeper connection with the people around us. We yearn for the company that wasn’t “socially assigned” to us; but one that we assign ourselves to. We want to communicate on a more substantial level— we want to talk to people who don’t think that we’re being too weird or too passionate. We want to be with people who understand the painful things we’ve been through and are willing to accept the pain that we’re carrying. We friends who could fall in love with our ideas, our crazy suggestions, our obnoxious beliefs. We want to know that there are people out there who wants to see the world from the eyes of another.

We all have different roads ahead of us. But I know somehow, all of those roads will cross each other at the perfect time and then, we’d realize that we aren’t alone. All it takes is a little patience and a little strength. So don’t lose hope, buddy. We’ll find our way to each other soon enough because after all, the misfit toys are easier to spot. 🙂

 

Your Ohana,

Me.

 

Valentine’s Gift

How long has it been? Three, maybe four years?

It’s surprising, and a bit funny actually, to run into you on Valentine’s Day. Remember last year? When we used to hang out by the park down the road because you think that restaurants were too fancy and almost always too crowded with people pretending that they are genuinely in love with each other. “They’re just in it for the bliss. But when things go south, they hit the abort button faster than you can say quesadilla” you said to me.

Honestly, I wouldn’t think you would remember. You’ve always been bad with dates. On your dad’s birthday, you thought that it was your parents’ 50th anniversary so you bought them a two large pillows with their faces on each one. Your dad laughed so hard that his dentures fell off. From then on, you made sure to set an alarm for their birthdays on your phone. It was a smart idea. You never forgot them ever since.

I wonder how have you been since then. I can see that you haven’t changed a lot; you still have your dark, brown hair brushed up, and I’m guessing you still use the same brand of pomade we bought when you were having tantrums about how messy your hair is. I didn’t really care back then—I liked how beautifully messy your hair was. It reminds me of the day we first met, when you tripped on the ground as you exited the bus. I offered you my hand and you were sobbing, saying that you failed your college entrance exam. “Will you drink with me?”, you asked. I was taken aback. “How can a total stranger ask me for a drink? He must be really desperate.” I thought to myself. But I agreed. And we hurriedly ran down to the nearest pub we can find. After a couple of shots and endless servings of quesadilla, you said to me “You have a funny face. You look too feminine for a man.” There was silence, but we both laughed. I wonder if you still remember.

“Hey! Picking flowers for your date?” you asked, while absentmindedly caressing the giant rose you picked. “Nah,” I replied, “This is for mom. She loves chrysanthemum”. You smiled, and went back to looking at a large collection of roses. “How is she? your mom?”

I think you forgot how she was. She’s been dead years even before we met. Don’t you remember? you used to accompany me to the cemetery on the morning of Valentine’s day to give her flowers. It’s been a tradition of mine after all, she’s the most special woman in my life. Of course you’d forget, you never cared for me. You’d always forget the little, but extremely significant details of my life. Like that time on my 31st birthday and we were supposed to celebrate it together. We’ve been dating for only a year during that time, but I was honestly hoping you’d live up to your promises. I waited for hours at your favorite restaurant. To be frank, I was expecting some sort of grand surprise from you, that you being late was just an act. but lo and behold, you never showed up. “Sorry! I was busy at work last night and I couldn’t leave the office.” you explained the day after. Of course I let it pass. I always let things pass. “It’s okay. We can do it next time.” I always say. I should’ve known better.

“She’s okay.” I replied. “Could be better but hey, I think she’s happy.” I can see your face turn serious. Did you suddenly remember that she passed away? good for you then. “Isn’t she abroad or something?” you asked with a puzzled look on your face. “Ah. Yes. She’s somewhere.” I answered. It doesn’t surprise me anymore, your insensitivity.

I can still recall how much you belittled my depression as if it’s a joke. “You’re just sad!” you used to say. “Let’s have sex! It will make you feel much better.” I wasn’t sure if you were kidding back then. I thought that was a pathetic attempt to make me laugh, but your face was dead serious at that time. I didn’t reply. You shrugged your shoulders and we continued walking down the bookstore. You hated books. You hated reading. You hated everything I love. It’s still a mystery to me how we managed to stay together for three years even without having anything in common. You liked ice cream, I hated sugary things. I loathe clubs, you were a party animal. These little differences that we had developed into larger issues. Arguments turned to infidelity. Incompatibility turned into physical violence. How I’ve managed to survive you, I do not know. Maybe it was love that kept me strong. Maybe it was love that kept me stupid. Maybe it was love that kept me hoping that someday, things will change. But they didn’t.

“Do you want to hang out?” you asked, with a weird glimmer in your eyes. “Uhm, where are we going?” I replied. I should know better by now that you’re trouble. That this is a bad conversation, and that it will lead to something even worse. “I don’t know, we could have a few drinks. Are you going out on a date later?” I just shrugged my shoulders, “No. I’m not really dating anyone.” I couldn’t look at you in the eyes while saying that, I don’t want to feel pity from you. I don’t want you to see that I am not doing well, that I became a mess when you left. I don’t want you to see the pain that I’m feeling right now—the pain that comes with seeing the person you once loved, and the person you hate, is now sharing the same body. “You know what, let’s go. I don’t have work tomorrow anyway.”

What was I thinking, saying yes to you? I couldn’t leave now, the bar is only across the street. Am I still hoping? Am I wishing that this is our rekindling moment, like the ones you see on the movies? I’ve always been the hopeless romantic type; that’s one of the few reasons why I thought we were meant to be together. From our fateful encounter to the applicability of the “opposites attract” theory, everything made me believe that we are destined for each other. I ignored the red flags, I ignored the warnings my friends said. Heck, I even turned a blind eye when you cheated on me. I’m so stupid for thinking that I I’m living in a fantasy world where all love stories have happy endings. Damn you, Nicholas Sparks.

We had a few shots, but I was getting a bit dizzy already. It was a tiring day and drinking on a busy was the last thing on my mind. But here we are, chugging down an entire bottle of wine. “Hey, I have to meet my boyfriend in a bit. But would you mind going back with me to my place? My gift for him is so heavy, I can’t bring it down on my own.” What. The. Fuck. Of course you’re dating someone! Of course you’re spending time with your ex on Valentine’s Day! I want to laugh at this situation right now but I couldn’t. I can only nod in agreement to your crazy request. “Sure.”

I can’t believe I fell for your sex trap. And to think, that you’ll meet your boyfriend a few hours from now. How stupid can I get? Wasn’t it enough that you left me as if I was nothing? Wasn’t it enough you threw away everything I gave you, everything I offered? Haven’t I learned from my mistake of loving you? Did I honestly think that hooking up with you on Valentine’s Day would be sufficient to make you love me again? What is this, a Gary Marshall sequel? Fuck this, I don’t need this. I don’t need to go through hell again. As I grab my clothes and book my Uber, I look at you as you mindlessly scroll on your phone. You’re still the same guy I knew four years ago. It makes me happy that you haven’t changed. You’re still the same trash I dated. But now, even though it was through a painful experience, I can finally say that I can move on. I can stop blaming myself and instead, blame all the decisions I’ve made.

“Thank you.” I say to you before I leave. “For what?” you ask, without even looking away from your phone. “For your Valentine’s gift.” I answer, as I close the door with a smile on my face.

Dear Writer’s Block…

…it’s not you, it’s me.

I don’t want to blame you and your intangible existence for my laziness. I don’t want to blame you for not giving me any creativity to write original content. And I definitely do not want to blame you for the crippling, debilitating regrets I have in my head. It is unfair, isn’t it? You, who do not have arms and legs, to be blamed by someone who are far more capable.

In fact, you should’t even be considered as someone, or something, accountable; you’re just an idea. A label. An excuse. But let’s be honest, everyone encounters you at some point. Whether it be a college student, a professional writer, you, uncalled-for and unwanted, knock on the doorsteps with your middle-finger waving in the air. Sometimes, however, more than being a pain-in-the ass, you are capable of teaching us valuable lessons.

You’re the one who reminds them that they are not perfect, that they cannot always write something substantial. You make proud people humble. You keep others grounded to their feet whenever they feel like they’re skyrocketing to Uranus. You keep us sane, you keep us humane. We are not gods and goddesses of writing, and you appear to remind us that.

You are often a blessing in disguise. You arrive during our lowest. Whenever we feel too tired to function but we don’t even realize it, you suddenly swoop in like Santa Clause on Christmas Eve. You tell us, non-verbally of course, to stop overworking ourselves and take a goddamn break. We are not machines—we are living, breathing human beings who experience fatigue and stress; both physical and mental.

But why is that we fail to realize your innate value? Why do we see you as a nuance, a pain-point, instead of seeing you as a good thing, or a challenge at the very least? You always receive the blame, but sometimes I wonder, shouldn’t it be the other way around? Shouldn’t it be you who should blame us for our lapses? Our incompetencies? Our lack of experience? We think too highly of ourselves and our work that sometimes we fail to strive to become better. We stop searching for new experiences because we say to ourselves “I create worlds. Therefore it is not necessary for me to dwell on someone else’s.” We stop pointing our fingers to ourselves and instead relive our previous faults and failures, thinking that we can attribute our current condition to the mistakes that our past selves have done. we become so distracted with the outside world that we forget to live in our own. we become so fascinated with the lives of other human beings that we fail to realize that we have to concentrate our attention to the characters and beings we created with our ink. They are living, waiting within the pages of the stories we wrote. It is a bit selfish to neglect them, don’t you think?

So, Writer’s Block, I’d like to apologize if ever I’ve blamed you for the misfortunes that I’ve encountered as I crawl my way to writing greatness. I was just scared of blaming myself because I know that there is no one else to condemn if I screw up. The next time we meet, I’ll greet you with a smile and give you a tight hug. But until then, let me focus on my craft, myself, and my world.

Your Friend,

Me.

Call Me Mr. Martyr

A few months ago, I stopped believing in love and loyalty. In this era, polyamory is a trend and faithfulness is a luxury. However, things changed when I tried to see the world in a different light.

I’ve started to admire happy couples, started to feel excitement whenever a friend tells me that he is dating someone. Even those who became unfaithful to their partners, I’ve started to believe that they can change, and that they’re effort to do so is something praiseworthy.

I went out a few days back with my friends. We went to this gay club in the city, a place where temptations are all around you. After a few drinks, a friend of mine initiated to make out with me. I tried to steer away but the alcohol is already flowing through my veins. I tried to gain control over myself and pushed him away since I know that he has a partner.

Fast-forward to today, his partner messaged me and asked me who started it, how long it lasted and if he kissed anyone else. At first, I told him the truth.

He was the one who approached me. I was shocked that he did but I pushed him away.”

I started to feel that he was about to break up with him. I hate seeing relationships die and I try my best to prevent two people from falling apart. So I told him a different story.

“Actually, I was the one who initiated. He was drunk and he was the nearest guy. So I thought, maybe, it was okay to make out with him.”

He got mad. Furious. He threatened to embarrass me on social media. I tried my best talk him out of it but he was persistent. I don’t know what might happen tomorrow, but one thing is for sure; I tried to save their relationship and it felt good. It always feels nice to do something for other people. And it feels even better if it’s for something or someone important to you.

Love is important to me. And I believe that there’s still love between that couple.
And sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for the things we believe in.

Millenial Nostalgia

When we were kids, our parents forbade us to watch television, listen to pop music, idolize celebrities, buy magazines, and just basically be involved in anything cool. Those who were rebellious didn’t listen – but for others, they were deprived of the vein-popping music and eye-watering visuals that were offered during the late 70s up to the early 80s. It was truly a beautiful era for pop and the youth. Not just the music, but the aesthetics as well.

Now, millennials are reliving that era. They’re reinventing the previous fashion trends, reintroducing an upgraded version of electronic music, and other complicated but relatively awesome pop-culture elements.

It must have something to do with the fact that we were so isolated from the neon-lit world that we are reviving that era so that we can live in it. We want to feel liberated. We want to give ourselves the experiences that our parents deprived us of. We want to go back to the past by putting it in the present. This is our version of time travel.

Modern-day pop culture is our time machine.

Stranded In The Middle Of The Ocean

It’s 9:00PM and it’s Friday night. You take a long shower, wear your favorite perfume, put on your iconic jacket, and beat your face for the gods. It’s time to go out, to carpe the fucking noctem. You’re single and you deserve a night out. To alleviate the stress and pressure of being in a relationship. “I can do this. I’m gonna be okay” you assure your reflection on the mirror. You chat your friends, book your Uber, and hype yourself up for the surprises of the night.

As you arrive, you are greeted by the doorman of your favorite club. He says “welcome back” and you just give him a decent smile. After you enter the neon-lit venue, you then make your way through the sheer crowd looking for your friends and other familiar faces. You see them. You start to drink, smoke, and dance your sorrows away. You own the night. You. Own. It.

Then you see someone staring at you. “He looks decent” you say to yourself. As he approaches you, you are suddenly filled with excitement. This is it. You’ve made your first catch for the night. He asks you to dance with him and as you both jive to the rhythm of DJ, you see his eyes – his beautiful brown eyes. He leans in to kiss you, and you make out for more than 5 minutes. He then leaves, asks for your number, and gives you a quick kiss on the cheek.

Another guy comes to you. And another one. And another. They all did the same thing. Dance. Stare. Kiss. Leave. This vicious cycle goes on for the rest of your night. It makes you happy, yes. It makes you feel powerful, like you’re suddenly this sought after good that everyone wants. But after tasting their lips, you suddenly feel it crashing in.

“Why won’t anyone like me?”

Total bullshit, right? You tell it to your friends, and they dismiss you. They tell you that everyone in the place is practically itching to fuck you. But you know, deep inside, that you yearn for something more. Something concrete, something meaningful, something that’s more than just lust. Something real.

As the night ends, your friends are starting to sober up. You notice that everyone is starting to leave. Some with take-outs, some without. You thought to yourself that this night would be different. That you wouldn’t be a simple party slut. But as the lights turn on and sun shines on your face as you exit the club, it dawns on you.

You’re lonelier than when you entered it.
You’re just another person, stranded in the middle of an ocean.