I have made a reputation of myself to be a fabulous confabulist that people find it hard to believe my stories even when I'm telling the truth.
"Oh, Trinoma did that, when I was performing for Valentine's Day in 2010, they had this helicopter hover above the mall to shower us with rose petals," I once informed the team I was brainstorming with. Which really happened. Trinoma had this shower of rose petals schedule for Valentine's Day, and due to some fortunate timing, I was on stage reciting my love poems when it arrived. It felt like I was on full rockstar mode, and my unemployed parents were in the audience giving their unwavering support. Unfortunately, no one bothered enough to capture the moment on digital video. I take this as a vote of confidence from my parents' part, that these magical moments of rose petals showering from the skies happen on my performances on a regular basis that it's not worth documenting.
These things happen to me, and it really is hard to prove, what with the questionable credibility of my word as the only basis for accepting it as true. Like that one time a gorgeous Korean boy dragged me into the coat's room of a hiphop club in Seoul, and started to assault my mouth with his. Based on how his saliva tasted like, I'm pretty sure he was drunk. Not exactly one to shy away from homoerotic episodes involving alcohol, the music of Jay-Z, and parkas that belong to strangers, I still had the good sense to push him away and inform him that, like him, I was a boy, but unlike him, I wasn't drunk. Perhaps it's because he spoke no word of English, and I may have mangled my Korean bad enough to actually spur him on, or the fact that I was wearing my hair long then, but my flat out refusal to play tongue futsal with him only provoked him to stab my tonsils with his tongue with renewed vigor. Like a politician on the last quarter of his term prior to running for re-election on a mad road reconstruction frenzy, he was hell bent on his intent to restructure my oral passageway.
I gave him some time to lose steam. After all, he was drunk, he wasn't bad looking, and for the first time, I'm making out with someone who didn't need me to laugh at his jokes. I pushed him away again, this time, using my hands, I demonstrated the physical definition of what I mean as I insisted my biological make-up. "I'm a boy, look," I said, thumping my puny chest where no mammary glands grow. "A boy!" I repeated.
At this point, despite not having any success at my attempts to communicate with my apparently drunk insta-date--who, if I may add, has spent more time trying to know me than anyone I've ever gone out with ever, my charades on my reproductive system's functions seemed to have caught the attention of the bouncer. Strong, manly arms pried us apart, and began dragging my drunk face assaulter away, 20-seconds before I began considering building a life with this intoxicated stranger and his technophonic tongue. Perhaps we'd spend Friday nights watching Korean DVDs together, and I'd fall asleep on his shoulders reading the subtitle, and I'd wake up 15 minutes before the whole thing end and he'd catch me up on the plot so far, making things up as he go along, basically merging the plot of Rosemarie's Baby with Superman: The Return and an episode of The Nanny. I am a romantic that way.
Now, I'm considering writing the club management for a copy of that night's security tapes. Perhaps I could prove once and for all that I was savagely sexually assaulted by a man more good looking that I am. That way, my credibility would be improved, and I wouldn't have a hard time convincing people that I really was part of my university's marching platoon.
"Seriously, guys, I was a rayadillo," I insisted for what felt like the 35th time that night.
What was infuriating was that no one was contesting anymore.
Which gave me this crazy idea of a tell-all memoir. What if I come up with a collection of stories that REALLY happened to me, but no one would believe to be true? What if?
What do you think? Should I go for it?
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