Un[der]appreciated

There is nothing wrong.

Nothing’s wrong with me.

I’m nice. I’m cute. I’m tall, dark, and handsome. Don’t laugh at me! I’m serious here, you know. I’ve got kind of curly hair. What’s with having curly hair? And quit that “kulot-salot” thing. Stereotyping is definitely a no-no. I’m kind. I used to ask you out to lunch. I took you home from school in my car a number of times. I gave you a lot of things. Love, affection, attention, caring, a nice-looking glow-in-the-dark shirt, a Blue Magic glass thingy with a condom inside and a message that read “Break Glass In Case Of Emergency,” a cell phone, and hey, you still have my Benetton sport perfume and my stupid brother’s pathetic big big big high-school-fashioned elephant pants!

What the fuck is your problem?

I don’t know what’s with you that keeps you from appreciating all the things I’ve done for you. And I don’t know what’s with me that keeps me doing those things even if I am unappreciated. Well, I love you. And when I say I love you, I don’t expect anything in return. Call me stupid, loser, dunce. Call me whatever you like. That’s what love really is, isn’t it? Or maybe, it’s only me. No, it’s not me, I think. It’s you. You got a big problem. You are selfish. You only think of yourself, your looks, and of course, your ego. You don’t know when and how to appreciate the people around you, especially me. And why me? Because I’m always around you. Because I never fail to lose my breath at the sight of you. Because I go nuts when I’m with you. That’s why.

Well, yeah, I know I haven’t been always good. I could be really nasty and bad bad bad sometimes. I know I uttered offensive words when we had a problem one time. I thought you just deserved that. And I know I was wrong. I know I smoke. So what if I smoke Davidoff? You smoke too. You often asked cigarettes from me. At least, I don’t smoke weed nor crack. I know I drink, but I only get drunk when I’m depressed. And more often than not, you’re the reason I find that causes my depression.

Now, tell me. What’s the matter with me?

There is nothing wrong.

Nothing’s wrong with me…

I guess…