Sometimes, even if I’ve told myself I don’t regret, I still do.
…that I don’t get to visit my father as much as I should. He doesn’t remember anymore that he has sons. He only mentions my mother’s name even if she’s right in front of him.
…taking another big scoop of creamy double chocolate ice cream when I have already told myself that one is enough. Tomorrow I would see ‘the bulge’ of my midsection not being any smaller as I’ve planned it would a month ago.
…not giving the lady my seat in the train and pretending to be asleep. I said to myself, “but there were other women standing like her”, except she’s the only heaving two big bags from her shoulders.
…sneering at the overly chirpy female fastfood crew simply because I was having a bad day.
…those times when I said ‘yes’ when I really meant ‘no’.
…not hearing mass for the past two years because I had an argument with a priest about condoms, sexuality and religious ambiguity. I still see him officiating mass and I doubt if I’d ever go near the church again with him there.
…being cynical. I should have more faith in people.
…being too careful when I should be taking a little bit more risk.
And now I find myself feeling regret for having written this. I have no idea how to type in a proper end.