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22.03.09, SundaySo it was my 6th monthsarry with this bald guy whose face I am yet to see. [I know what you’re thinking. Since when did I fall prey for bald men? It took Derek Ramsay and Wentworth Miller’s Michael Scofield for me to reconsider.] There was this huuuuge box (about knee-high) separating us. It contained my delayed monthsarry present for him. I expressed my apologies then pointed to the piece of paper pinned on the side. “It’s my poem for you,” I explained, asking him to read it before opening the massive gift. My eyes were very lovestruck, I recall.

All of a sudden, we’re on a bus. I was seated, watching him read it from afar. (What’s with the distance?) I saw him wrinkle his forehead as he mouthed the word “caldereta” with difficulty.

When I woke up, I decided he must be a foreigner. Why else would he find it hard to read “caldereta“?

Speaking of, I must admit I am greatly attracted to a certain New Yorker I met somewhere. This might had influenced my deduction my “boyfriend” on my dream was a foreigner. Incidentally, there’s this fresh -in-my-eyes guy  (enough clue!) who kinda resembles him. Now THAT guy is bald. Let’s connect more dots, shall we?

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