This was originally written by Rose Tan.
I watched Rambo, the Last Blood.
I nagged my brother to download it for me so I can watch it come Christmas Eve while bingeing on sweet ham, embutido, and menudo. So, there I was, happily munching away in front of my mother’s TV, watching what was probably a pirated version of the movie.
I knew it was going to be bad.
Rambo the movie did not disappoint.
It was awful.
But I had to see it. The first Rambo hit the theaters just when I had my very first period, aptly titled First Blood. Now that my estrogen supply’s dwindling, I believe with all my heart that I MUST SEE THE LAST BLOOD. Rambo kick started my PMS journey, he should end it, too. I am sentimental like that.
Valentine’s month is here again, single people’s most dreaded occasion. I blame Noah for that. Why did the animals have to be in pairs, Sir? You started single-shaming, Sir. Pair up or perish? Not so very nice of you, Sir. I had to look up to a droopy faced muscleman with slurred speech to survive my singlehood. John Rambo became my spirit animal.
He fought alone.
He nursed his wounds alone.
He was always the last man standing.
No matter what the enemies threw at him or whatever torture they subject him to, his headband remained intact.
I have learned to slay like Rambo.
You can, too.
