If you've ever read my TheSmartLocal articles, you would know I live to write bad reviews. I assure you I have low standards. It doesn't take much to please me. I believe sincerely in the innate goodness of human beings.
But there aren't human beings in Sheraton Towers' service line.
Only judgmental fucks.
I entered the place in a rush. There was a guest at the reception and so I patiently waited. The tall expat collected his keys from the overly warm receptionist and courteously left the line. I walked up naturally.
And Sheraton Towers, her shift is 5.30pm on 11 November and I hope to God you find her because this receptionist stared me down and scrunched up her face. I asked politely for the gym level and she answered disdainfully then zoned out.
Zoned the fuck out.
But moving on.
Bad service will not stop me from cheesy photos!
Excuse the stomach. The lighting is shit and I haven't been able to properly exercise ever since my killer HIIT session on Monday. I feel my core tightening but it obviously doesn't look the part. No matter, I will keep working on them.
The judgement continues on into the gym. I was warm and jovial the whole time, but the man barely looked up at me. He handed me the gym key, talked down to me, then walked off without a further word.
What, am I not a qualified person because I used KFit to enter?
KFit need a better QC on their fucking partners.
Pool was meh, steam room was meh and sauna was meh. I have one more visit for this place but Satan has to personally pick me up at Clementi before I'll come back to this judgmental hellhole again.
Anyway, I think the body part benefiting most from whatever I'm doing is my ass.
I have spent hours prancing in front of Gabriel telling him again and again how ridiculously perky my ass is getting without concentrated effort. And once he went on his knees and worshiped it and gave it a little kiss heh heh I am the luckiest girl.
I truly am.
-
My heart is loved purely and fully by you.
My heart is safe with you now.
But there was once it isn't.
There was once where all I knew was pain -- how to feel it, how to let it choke my soul, how to allow it into my lungs, how to inflict it to others, how to shove it down a throat, how to give it total control over my life.
That was when he left.
My tragedy with him was that I never loved him when he was around, I only loved him when he left. And as such, I was tormented by an alarming mix of guilt and forlornness, which devastated me for up to two years after he walked out my door.
But then you came.
And you brightened all my skies.
And I thought: I can finally let the guilt, the pain, and him, go.
But there was always a nagging worry at the back of my mind; that I would always go back to him no matter who I'm with. That I would drop it all to start over: to assuage the guilt, to lessen the pain, because I truly did believe I was made for him.
Nine years of history.
He texted me again when we were at the movies.
When I saw his WhatsApp name, I thought I hallucinated it. It wasn't the first time my the demons of my defeated past played with my eyes. But it was true and it was him. I excused myself to the washroom. I had to read what he sent.
Safe in a cubicle, I read.
And the first wave fell over me.
Relief.
I no longer yearn for him.
I still feel the bite of the guilt and the pain of love at the wrong age.
The yearn was dead and buried.
But.
I still wanted to see him.
Do you see?
It would be my last test. It is the final testament to myself, when I see him and remember how it was like when he was my on-and-off-again friend, like he was for five years, before our love tore him to shreds and me to aftermath insanity.
And I'm scared and I'm sorry and I don't know what to do.
But I know I love you.
I love you most.
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