Saturday, 31 May 2014

Okay, you know what. I like cliche. In fact, I want cliche.

I want my life to be like a bad rom-com, with it's predictable twists and unoriginal plot lines. Sure I could go without the extremely public sweeping declaration of undying devotion because, well, ick, but I would like to live one of those dumb cliches we are always seeing on big screen: mundane activities like painting the garage with your SO which inevitably lead to playfully flicking paint at each other; or an alcohol-induced duet of a tone-deaf rendition of Don't Go Breaking My Heart on karaoke; or even a dash of partial-nudity under the pretext of the act of chivalry in the pouring rain...

You know what, that last one did actually happen. Oh yes, it happened. That story transpires to late July '12. An impromptu heavy shower of rain, followed by a boy taking off his shirt and handing it to me so I wouldn't get cold from the rain. 

To answer your question, no there wasn't any accidental make-out sesh like it was The Notebook or anything; it was purely platonic. A noble gesture indeed, my good sir. But never before had my life felt like such an uninspired and overly-cliche scene from a cheesy chick-flick. 

And the worst part is, I liked it. I like cheesy.

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