"It's all about picking the right bra"

After lunch today, I realize that I cannot be a radio DJ.

I met up with Icka earlier today. It is, frankly, the one thing that made my Monday. After all, in the two years since I graduated we've chatted a lot, from American Idol to Japanese tentacle porn. That, and I've been inviting her to coffee for so long, but things haven't always worked out.

Icka is one of the few people who I can really be comfortable with. Sure, that sounds totally clich├ęd, but we've been throwing stuff at each other all these years and it's like nothing's really wrong. Maybe it's because she's not like everybody else, the sort who'd tolerate me doing (or, in these cases, saying) what others would frown on.

Then again, our conversation - over Italian fast food, more or less - was oddly conventional. Apparently she hasn't caught up with many of our blockmates since two years ago, so most of the things I mentioned was news to her. Still, it didn't stop me from acting giddily, and aside from the few necessary lapses, I went up to her and spoke in my breathless English.

I fail at my American accent.

Not that I have to talk in an American accent. I'm no American, after all, and I don't even work in a call center. But Icka's the sort who'd talk to you in slightly-pretentious English - not that there's anything wrong with it, because that's really how she rolls. But our conversations always make me realize that my spoken English, while sensible, fails because it doesn't sound right. Thus, I'll never really have a career as a radio DJ. They need folks who sound good in every possible way. You know, like Ariane and the dream she had last night.

The unusual thing is, Icka didn't really grow up in the United States. As far as I know, she hasn't been there. I guess it's the upbringing: when you're surrounded with artsy types - her family owns an art gallery, and that's where we met today - you're expect to pick up a few speech lessons or two.

Somehow our conversation ended up being about, well, people who speak really good English. Kizia, for one, grew up in the United States, and came to the Philippines as she began high school. "She still has the accent," Icka reminded me, "but at least she can speak Tagalog." And then she tells me of a friend of hers who can't speak Filipino - and the way she says her English, the way Les sort of would, was apparently "adorable".

"She'd say 'puta' and I'd be so proud," she said. "She's so adorable!"

I'd then tell her about Misha, whose background I never really knew despite me having a crush on her for more than a year. She speaks some Filipino, but with an accent so thick it's uncomfortable. Not that I mind, although I can only imagine what happened on the set of Paglipad ng Anghel.

During our movie date, Kat - who was, I think, the production manager - told me how they all had to translate stuff for Misha. She worked as the art director, I think, which meant she was in charge of all these little details in the props.

"Kailangan namin ng belo," someone would say.

"Uhm, what's beh-loh?" she'd answer.

"Uhm, veil," they'd go.

"I felt bad for her," I told Icka. "It's like she became a one-note joke." But then again, that's part of what Celine once called her "certain charm". I guess that's why I had a crush on her in the first place. Yes, I can be shallow like that. And yes, considering what I said before - that we tend to like people who are who we want to be, more or less - well, that is the case.

The conversation would go towards our crushes, and ultimately, to bra sizes, and the way some people are surprised that I know how to calculate that. It still is that random. Or maybe not, because we've talked about this before.

At the risk of sounding like a pervert, I'll write about Icka's chest, which is more, uhh, ample than the average woman's. Then again, she's a big person. She'd assert that, because some people have G-cup boobs and a five-foot frame. And also, she's okay with me talking about it, which explains the "healthy, average boobs" conversation we once had.

And yes, she's okay with me staring at them once in a while. I'm a guy, after all. It happens.

"I get to admire your gorgeousness from a sideways angle," I told her, still breathless, as we walked around the mall trying to kill time.

"That's why we're friends!" she said, offering a high five, and explaining why hers are perkier than the rest who have similarly-sized ones. It's all in, she says, picking the right bra.

I realize that I don't really want to be a radio DJ. I want to be the guy working behind the scenes, making the whole package work. Programming, Jeany suggested, is my best suit, and I agree, judging from the way I geeked out during advanced radio production class. In this case - and this metaphor is flimsy - it's like me picking the right bra. Not that I need a bra, of course.

As for Icka, well, we'll meet again. She promised that. I just hope I don't feel uncomfortable about it, especially after writing this little perverted ditty.

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