When the box office movie No Other Woman hit the cinemas, I was ecstatic. It wasn’t only because my dear Ann Curtis was THE other woman but it was also because the plot is very familiar to me, not that I have been in one, of course or have I? *wink
The episode of PBB Teen Edition 4 last night triggered me to write this. With the tsunami of tweets about it, who can avoid looking at the issue in a deeper perspective?
I don’t know why they called it a party. Maybe because it’s something that can give you temporary happiness. Maybe it’s something that can gratify your need for belongingness. But just like any other party, it’s something that is short-term. It’s that thing which sends you high up in the sky in one minute but before you know it, you’re already falling to the ground, with your head landing first. They rush you to the hospital with multiple fractures yet you end up dead on arrival with either myocardial infarction or internal hemorrhage as your cause of death.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. Not. Bottom line: Being the third party hurts. Like hell. Times Three.