Disclaimer: The following post, every word of which is true, contains imagery that some may find disturbing. Parental discretion is advised.
(Scene: Bus ride from Managua to Rivas, Nicaragua. Driver puts on DVD containing two hours worth of 1980s American rock ballads and other love songs.)
“God damn it," I cry. "First an hour of Jesus rock en español, now this shit.”
First video plays. Staring ahead, expressionless, I feel nothing.
Five minutes pass. Foot twitches. I put a stop to it.
REO Speedwagon plays. Foot is now tapping, uncontrollably. I can't fight this feeling anymore. Fuck.
Ten more minutes pass.
♬ “More than words is all you have to do to make it real. Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me. 'Cause I'd already know.” ♬
I'm now humming. I'm fucking humming. No, more than that that: I'm mouthing the words.
Phil Collins starts playing. *(Ed. note: Due to its graphic nature, this section has been removed.)*
An hour into the DVD, the worst is now behind us. Or is it?
“Hello,” a lone voice calls out, “is it me you're looking for?”
My eyes are tearing up now. “Ugh, these contacts,” I mutter under my breath. “Allergies.”
I reach my destination, full of shame and self-loathing. And Lionel Richie's voice.
(This post composed in a pink notebook with a broken heart and the word “feelings” on the cover.)