Balot PInoy

Man, this song has been playing for four hours and eighteen minutes now. Computing the actual number of times that the song has repeated itself, I say, 73! That’s how I love David Cook. That’s how I love this song. That’s how currently smitten I am.

So I’m one of those goin’ ga-ga over David Cook. My friend, Doris, has got him on her profile pic, Aiai drools over him in her post, and my sis is heady over hunky David, too–along with probably half of the world’s female population. What can I say?! He’s one yummy, dreamy, pile of pure Alpha testosterone.

But I don’t plan to stop at merely ogling. I plan to pursue my heart’s desire. David Cook will land right on my lap, I tell ya. No, I won’t entertain the HOW question here. I just know deep in my beating crimson heart that I am the woman of his dreams; that I am that blurry image of a woman that he sees in his sleep; that my name is what’s at the tip of his tongue whenever he’s at a loss for words. He just doesn’t realize all these yet. But I’m gonna make him.

Having said that, HOW TO suggestions are most welcome. Perhaps I can start by erasing Kimberly Caldwell (the unknown that Davey is currently dating) from the face of this earth. But that would be mean. And even though I am mean, I prefer a fair fight, sans teeth and nails, of course.

Don’t suggest kulam or gayuma either. It only works here in the Philippines. I don’t have any geographical explanation for it, but kulam simply doesn’t work in the States, or with Hollywood celebrities. Duh. If it did, then George Clooney would’ve had crawled on his knees asking for my hand in marriage ER-years ago.

Don’t even mention the line “the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” and suggest that I cook for him because I am more of an eater than a cook. JJ (Name has been changed. Any similarity to actual person/s or circumstances is purely coincidental and unintentional.) has coined a term to describe my culinary capacity, “kitchen-impaired.” He practically drools over my cakes, though. But I digress… So cooking is a stupid idea. Even more so because of the fact that I’m not even virtually on the same planet with my David, much less in his kitchen.

How about kidnapping? Naaah! I don’t want the attention and the infamy.

Maybe I could just have him cloned. That way, I could have the same voice, the same unkempt boy-next-door looks, the same heart-stopping smile, the same everything. Maybe soon, I can have a few strands of his hair from e-Bay, thus solving the DNA requirement for cloning.

In the meantime, I’ll just have to rock myself back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth and stare blankly into space while listening to David’s songs over and over and over again.