Tribute

This is a tribute to the most maddeningly vexatious being I’ve had the (mis)fortune of getting to know.

You’re one odd cookie. You never seem to remember my name, or the names of most people for that matter, and you were completely oblivious to the existence of Krus na Ligas up until last year, despite studying in UP (and in Fine Arts at that).

You always introduce me to people with “This is Jo. She’s smart.” You claim it’s a warning for them, that I’m not easily impressed, or that I’m capable of holding any conversation without being fazed. I still find it strange that you preface me with that. But you were kind of bewildered that I flunked a number of subjects in Engineering. “How does one…fail a subject?” you asked me, half-confused and half-condescendingly. I had to explain calmly that in Engineering, we acquire our eyebags with a particular methodology, slightly different from those of your own eyebag-development methods from your own sleepless nights in FA. And I had to restrain myself. Relax, as you would always tell me. You are a cum laude, after all, whose brain functions quite differently and didn’t have to go through Onse or ME 63. We existed in separate dimensions, until we met one night at TK3, where we knocked back a few beers and bonded over a mutual indignation at people’s lack of self-awareness.

You tried to teach me how to do 3D one afternoon out of boredom, and you might have not realized that I absolutely had no previous experience with that software you were using. I’m also pretty sure my minimal SketchUp experience did not count for anything. But you kept going, and I understood you perfectly, although I probably will never be able to replicate what you explained. I had the word “node” stuck in my head for weeks.

You once told me about your favorite Thor comic story. You’re usually either too quiet and way into your head, or too scattered with your thoughts. So when I saw your eyes change and light up in a different way while you were so focused and talking intently about the art style and character development, I was fascinated. Those eyes—fiery and determined, like meteors burning up as they hurtle toward Earth.

You always use the wrong word, and I love that you don’t mind me correcting you. I know it’s a weird writer habit of mine. As much as you are very critical with me, you’re nevertheless quite accepting of my quirks, like that one. I think I do the same to you. We’re the same brand of paradoxical, it seems. Your typos are adorably stupid, though I’m not sure if it’s because your rapid-fire thoughts make you text at rapid-fire speed, or because your fingers may be too big for your keyboard.

Your weird concept of time and numbers is also adorably stupid. Your math is always off by a huge margin. I remember not seeing you for a week and a half when we used to gym together, and you told me it had been two months since we last met. You never get the change right when you pay for anything. It’s not that you’re bad at math, you’re just not interested in such details. Fussing over trivial things is more of my speed anyway.

In spite of you pissing me off to no end, tiring me out constantly with your boundless energy, scathing me repeatedly with your candid commentary, hurling me forcibly outside my comfort zone, and making me worry incessantly because of your predilection for danger, you still manage to be one of my favorite people in the world. You’re a ray of sunshine, and a strange comforting presence. I still don’t know, by the way, if your resemblance to James McAvoy is something I should enjoy. Like our strange relationship, we’ll figure it out eventually—or never really think about it as we go on with our lives. The likeness is a tad bit amusing though, and I always hope to see you suit up one day as Xavier at a convention, or dress up as one of the personalities from Split at a Halloween party.

This is quite long already. And I just reached 700 words. We both know there are so many more words where they came from, and so many things about you that sound like complaints but are really more of things that make me sigh while shaking my head, even though I’d still end up smiling afterwards because of how uniquely, fascinatingly “you” they are. This tribute now sounds like a love letter disguised as a wry feature, written by a jaded writer while a cigarette is pressed between her smirking lips. It could very well be, except that I don’t smoke. And I don’t write love letters, at least not in the conventional way.

This is a tribute to the most maddeningly vexatious being I’ve had the (mis)fortune of getting to know. And just now, I sighed, shook my head, and cracked a smile.

You’re one hell of an odd cookie, darling.