A note to Baka

With you, baka, nothing seems to work out as planned. All for the exception of booze and food. The salsa and chicken burritos were kind of substandard i must say, but thank you anyway, for letting me sleep way past your chow hour and not lamenting.

Things we were supposed to do this weekend:
1. Dip in the pool
2. Do an awful amount of walking around Chinatown
3. Making delectable tortillas for dinner
4. Watch ESPN on cable
5. Shop for exquisite pillow cases
6. Read

Stuff we ended up doing:
1. Slept
2. Errand running at PS plus uncomfortable bus ride home (cramped spaces and squeals of irritating guffaws from the seat next to ours)
3. Not quite delectable tortillas
4. Someone slept while i watched Jamie Oliver on Discovery Travel and Living
5. Uncovered pillows
6. Barely read 2 chapters of my book

You are undoubtedly in love with your single bed while i need wide open spaces. I need sprawling without constraint and propelling from one side of the bed to another. I get cramps from your resting your head on my shoulders, and i'm sure your arms ache from mine. Our unsynchronised snoring and my refusal to do a number 2 at your place afflicted me with both insomnia and constipation. I can put up with your crankiness, kisses from your unshaven face and your verbal abuse, but i really need a bigger bed and most of all, i need you to step out of the house for some few minutes while i take a dump. Will you do that for me? Pretty please? (You'd better say yes!)

Everything aside, i really like the way you smell, your melancholic sense of humour, your well-stocked larders and refrigerator, your tastes in music, your childish demeanour and your "lots of brains'. I really do.

Your malaka.