It's been quite awhile since I last talked about my jejemom. Last we spoke was around first quarter of 2010 and there were no pleasantries shared between us, only heartbreaks and frustrations. She is coming home to us next week perhaps, I really wouldn't know. She's been away for months without communication. Well, she tried, I didn't. I'm as stiff as Ron Jeremy's penile function. If they ask me is the pain fading away now? I really cannot say. I wouldn't want to assume it did. It works better this way. More respect, less bullshit. But it doesn't mean I hate hate her. I just hate her. Same as how Helga Pataki feels about hers, one way to put it. There are a variety of different reasons why it is the way it is. It's kind of sad to put into perspective since she is the woman-cause of my petty conception. That doesn't mean though that I'm supposed to be a slave to circumstance, am I?

She's stubborn as a mule or a sloth or a cat or a pig (no pun intended). She's the jejemonster the busters love to hate. She's the conservative and I'm the liberal. She's got poor cognitive skills but the best negotiating body. She's the potential of a failure. She's the typical crying lady, begging for fair and right vindications that only she is aware of. She's the reason my jejedad became who he is, a sad, wasted man driven to madness by a woman. The rotating cliche of romance tragedies. I truly believe my jejedad is, or I mean was, destined for great things, things I can only dream of attaining now, things which were long there but since then perished. That was how my jejedad was supposed to be. And then she met my jejemom.

Carrying thick bags and new things including the gifts of her labour, bearing signs and stories of her successful, triumphant victory on her quest towards self-retribution, we shall witness this and along with the gullible, we shall feign interest to her otherworldly experiences, her battle with this, her struggle with that. I know I'd shrug it off, never minding the thick dark clouds of calling, for I know that there is no point unless she realizes, which quite frankly she never does, that one thing I truly need from her. That epitome of depression-shattering vendetta. Change.

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