Malate, as much as I love it, will always be Malate.
My fear of Malate started when my friends weren’t allowed to enter a cafe for no apparent reason. I’m guessing it was because of the Adidas Gazelles, faded jeans and too-small rummage sale T-shirts.
Ever since that story, I avoided Malate, mainly because, no matter how cowardly it sounds, I’m afraid of being in a crowd of bourgeousie. It’s horrible to feel lost amidst people who look beatiful, perfect, polished.
The last time I’d been there was half a year ago and I’ve never been there again since. I’m really a scaredy-cat, except when I summon my quixotic moods. Meow.
That is until later tonight, After an afternoon flurry of madly-typed IM’s, I’m joining my friends for a girl’s night out at Malate instead of rotting in my usual seat at the gallery. Maybe I just need to be somewhere else, for a while. Maybe I need to get away from myself, cause there’s a lot of self-loathing right now. Or I’m just being pretentious. No time for pointing fingers. It’s going to be fun hanging out with Judi, flem and Honey again, after a long time. It’s going to be just like how we used to hang out in camiguin, except now we definitely won’t have sand between our toes, and the sunset won’t be as smashing.
My goal for the night is to have my picture taken with one of the drag queens roaming Malate streets, dubbed The Most Beautiful Non-Women In Manila. I know I should stay in bed and nurse my cold, but I figure cheap beer and good conversation with girl friends is the best medicine money can’t buy.
