Quirky name for a blog, I know, but that's how I always see myself: fleeing from the scene, fleeing from conflict, fleeing from whatever it is that's bugging me. It's not that I'm chicken or anything, just ask the numerous guys I've laid out with a sudden uppercut after making an unintelligent remark about me. It's just that I'm really not the confrontational type. Never was, and never will be, I guess, not that I think it's a bad thing on my part.
Best example: I was supposed to be at my uncle's place very well til February this year, but just two days after New Year's day and I was already on the road in my truck heading on home after a rather petty argument with my older cousin there. I say petty because I mean, really, who argues about paint? Like we don't have better things to argue about back there, but paint?
All I said was that the ancestral home had seen better days, and so has the house paint colors, and she flew into this tirade about how much of a city girl I've become, how I had lost my love for things that are classical and what-have-you. I told her I was just suggesting that maybe we should start choosing paint colors for the house, since the paint was already PEELING and falling on our heads whenever the house shakes a little, but she says she doesn't see it that way. She says I'm attacking their way of life, which should also be my way of life, she insists, since it was how they were brought up. I gave her a piece of my mind and told her I did go to the city and attended college so that I could make something of myself, rather than just stay in the country and be a baby-maker for some farmer.
So here I am, already home in my small pad, but already admiring the splendid job I did with the wall paint colors on the house, and thankful to be away from all the bickering and arguments over something I really think is petty and silly at best.
No comments:
Post a Comment