So, here’s the deal: fifteen years ago, I had this crush. A guy I’d occasionally see on the jeepney—no big deal, right? Except, of course, it was a huge deal in my head. We’d both get on the same ride, and there I was, trying to act all casual and cool while my heart was like a wild animal in a cage.

I think he knew I had a crush on him. But at that moment, I kept my feelings in check.
Why? Because I was too busy being dumb, saving my virginity for a metaphorical chimpanzee. (Yes, this is a real thing. Don’t ask questions.)

So, there we were, sitting together, and his hair? Long, wavy, like a rockstar. It kept strutting on my face every time the jeepney turned a corner. So, without thinking (and maybe a little too boldly), I blurted out, “Look, can you please cut your hair?! They’re going strumming in my face!”

And to my surprise—no, to my absolute shock—he replied, “I am not your boyfriend. Don’t ask me to cut my hair off.”

With this look—the kind of disgust that said, “You’re ridiculous.”

I sat there, stunned.

It was like someone threw a bucket of cold water on my heart.
I thought I was being cute, funny, but no, apparently, I was a comedy trainwreck.
That was the moment my 15-year-old self realized I wasn’t in a rom-com, but in an awkward sitcom where I was the punchline.

But you know what? That’s fine. I’m in love with the chimpanzee anyway. The one I’ve never met and who will never say mean things like that. I’m good.

Fast Forward…

News came from the chimpanzee…

Yeah, he got married. Didn’t even talk to me. Not even a “Hey, got some bananas for the honeymoon.”

Turns out, you can’t trust real men—or the fictional ones you’ve been dreaming about for years.

I was planning my fake wedding with him, and he was already in a real one.

Guess, I’ll just keep living my best life, with no one but my hairbrush to talk to.