It simply follows that, since I blog so often, I probably am socially awkward.

Sometimes, though, I consciously take a break from writing, at least on this space. It always entails thinking fairly hard, looking for the best way to both stay true to my message and mesmerize my readers. Perhaps it's my knack for wanting to impress everybody.

But that urge also means I hit myself hard when I think I deserve it. Well, arguably that happens always. But there are times when I can't think of the right way to say things, or even the right thing to write about, that I just let it boil over and take a break. Three days without an entry, tops, unless things really happen. Better that, than writing something aimlessly and realizing that you've writted a sucky essay, and then publishing it anyway.

I do admit you can't peel me away from the computer. But what else can I do? In a world where nobody is interested in you, all I can do is throw fists in the air, hoping it makes an impact. So, it follows, socially awkward people supposedly blog often.

I guess today is one of those days.

The idea was, as it seemed, mere catch-up, although there wasn't any need for it. The silence, however, was painful.

Painful, he figured, was different. Deafening is another cliché, but the area was quite noisy, so the existence of silence itself is questionable. He'd rather wait, so he turned his back and looked out to the fairly busy corridor. He stared at the clock. He stared at the desks. He started thinking.

The composition of this shot, well, it feels romantic.

Less than a minute later, he left his spot. Never mind if he was slowly settling his strained muscles, his lazy demeanor and the supposedly awkward silence. Well, there was no silence to speak of already. It was noisy from the beginning, all right, but he felt at peace anyway. Undeniably, though, the hesitation was there before his phone rang, before he proceeded to pick it up, before you peeked out of the wall. A little later, it was as if a cold spell divided him with the rest.

"I'll just stage a walk-out."

He was back in his original position, considerably miles away from where he should be. Or shouldn't be. Was he supposed to be there? Was he welcome in the first place? The frame slowly crumbled, the romance quickly dissipated, and, he figured, to hell with black specs and pink sweaters. He's got work to do.

They did tell him that it's supposed to go this way. Just go with the flow. He'll be honest with you if you give him a chance: he's used to it. Never mind the separation. Never mind that the emails have become professional. He could've wondered whether it was he who started the cold, or if they just wanted him away. But he's an unaccomplished person. He still wants to do things, never mind that he can't do it out of fear, a fear that's arrived already. He's acting as if it hasn't arrived yet, like something bigger is poised to hit him. But, of course, he knew better.

"You left early!" you said. "I never got the chance to say goodbye to you!"

"I'm sorry," he replied. "The awkward silence is just..."

He scrambled for the word.

"...unsettling."

He expected the exchange of apologies, although he knew there wasn't a reason for it. Nothing new really happened in the first place. Perhaps, he felt, it just sucks to be reminded that there are some things in the world that'd never work the way one wanted it. Or, even worse, the expectation that it will work fine, that things will get better, or that it will only happen when something gets done.

They did tell him that he should be friendly, for once. He should reach out. Or, they told him that it's probably because they're insecure, which was impossible, he felt, for they're more accomplished than he is. Insecurity is what he called it.

You tried to console him, as he started that worn-out litany again. Nothing new.

"And besides, I can say goodbye to you any time, right?" he said. "I'm proud to say I have a special spot in your heart. More than anybody else."

The complete irony lies in the fact that I was well rested before today. I slept earlier than usual, woke up later than usual (because nobody was going along with me) and even had a thirty-minute nap in the car, as it was stuck in traffic. And yet, when I got here, all my energy decided to take the last train to London.

And I started singing. I really want tonight to last forever. I really want to be with you.

Well, I didn't, but in times when you've got nothing to hold on to - either because you had to move desks, or because there's really no reason to keep holding on to something that won't let you anyway - you'll just feel like it isn't really worth it. And yet you're forced to find a reason to do so. After all, you can't just give up. People hate people who give up. And so goes keeping up appearances, when all you want to do is curl up the bed until it all ends, slightly annoyed that it's so far away. You just want to do something about it. Hasten the demise, so to speak.

I was finished before noon.

Blame the folks at Seattle. I didn't get an email, so I was limited to what I thought I was allowed to do. I've been keeping an essay in my head for days now, and while I've placed it in embargo until (hopefully) tomorrow, I still haven't received any approval. But that isn't really the reason. In fact, I could be doing something right now, or at least for the past five hours, but I'm not. Flotation devices notwithstanding, I feel very tired right now.

Last night was a burden. I was chatting with Monica, and I couldn't believe the stuff I was telling her, or the stuff she was telling me. Imagine me telling someone, with a straight face and the most serious demeanor, about actually considering suicide. Imagine me trying to cry, because I felt that something will come out, but giving up thirty minutes later. But it felt like the boiling point - seeing other people move on, not being able to do what you plan to do, waiting for something that wouldn't come even if it was the end of the world, feeling powerless about everything. Oh, if only my parents noticed that I'm being more irritable at home, the fact that I've been fighting with my mother more often than at any point in my two decades. If only they understood everything - the fact that I've wanted out from the moment my probation period ended, that it was my plan from the moment I cried at the mall, feeling helpless about the job offer that I wanted to refuse, but couldn't. If only they knew that giving up isn't necessarily a sign of cowardice, of weakness, of the aversion to constant change, the lack of will to make things better.

If only my friends knew that I've tried everything that I could possibly try, but the second step just isn't presenting itself.

If only my bosses knew that I'm not happy with the way things are going, from idle afternoons to the lack of actual interaction.

If only my colleagues knew how I feel whenever they laugh behind my back, literally, and not realize that I'm actually right there, waiting for a beginning.

If only there was a chance to get out of here, I will.

Actually, as all arguments have gone, I can file that resignation letter and leave any time. But I've always insisted that I won't leave unless I have somewhere to go to, because nobody wants me to be unaccomplished, and nobody wants me to be idle, and nobody wants me around, because I'll just be a drain on the resources when I could be helping out. And that, it turns out, is the biggest contradiction that's faced me.

I didn't get into the school magazine, but my classmate did. He was this big guy, literally, who seemed to have so many friends. While he was being surrounded by girls and chatting about whatever's on the charts, I was this kid who struggled starting over in a new environment. Making friends was one thing. Dealing with bullies was another. It was worse considering I thought I was good at some things - in this case, writing - and suddenly I wasn't good enough for them. Perhaps they didn't care as much for the bus drivers who brought them to campus.

But I had more pressing problems to deal with - difficulties adjusting, a crush on a seatmate, the pack of bullies that seem to increase every minute, and falling frades - so, never mind the magazine, I'll just get on to work. Never mind if I don't get to spend my idle time inside the small publication office. At least I found myself the librarians, and the guidance counselors, and before I knew it, I was having something to look forward to.

Anyway, this classmate of mine who got in, well, he found the need to speak to me in the way he's been privileged to do. I was, after all, craving for attention; all I wanted was for everyone to hear my story, of looking for friends and beating everybody else, in a world that ironically couldn't care less.

"Read my article," he told me. "It's dedicated to you."

The magazine came out, and amidst the amateur (or ugly) layout, there it was. It was a ditty about being yourself. Back then it was a fairly new concept - then again, there were the Sprite ads which launched Toni Gonzaga's career - so it was a revelation of sorts. All my childhood I was out trying to impress everyone, following the rules and keeping yourself in check and all that. Well, I still had to keep myself in check, but there's no need to conform to others just to be accepted. A bit of advice from someone who's got so many friends? Maybe it'd work.

Looking back eight years later, it's ultimately a big piece of hypocrisy. Before I was given the boot in September, the people who inexplicably ganged up on me grew. I was already sounding desperate - I wasn't tweaking anything, but I wasn't conforming either; I just wasn't doing stuff that they considered weird as often. (Or, ask Regine. She probably knows more now that I've repressed that age.) A few started listening to my stories, but it felt like a lost cause with each passing day. As for this guy, who extolled the virtues of being yourself in order to gain acceptance from others, well, turns out he hated me a lot. Even my sister wasn't saved by his theatrics. Or, should I say, her theatrics.

Everybody is a hypocrite. Everybody will tell you that it's okay to be you, but to be honest, they couldn't be bothered. Once you don't pass their criteria, you'll be quickly passed over. I think I've heard this too many times. Either I'm too weird, or too cynical, or too noisy. Either I should go out more often, or drink tequila and vodka more, or smoke a couple of sticks (or packs). A common affinity, of course, is needed to make things a little better, but more often than not, you've got to do something to be able to get their thumbs up. Say, read up on your pop culture, watch episodes of Weeds online, or act just a bit more gay.

I've been successful, though, to some extent. I got out of hell and got myself back to normal in no time. I found friends along the way, or at the very least, people who listen to my stories, although I still think that they're either annoyed at my presence, or another person is. (I can hear the words "stay away from my girlfriend, you goofball" echoing.) Eight years only pressed, however, the idea that if you're a little different, you'll obviously be thrown out from the crowd, rather than merely naturally isolated from it. They just can't be bothered taking you in and figuring you out. They'll just say something like "I hate guys who like me" and then shun you. Boom. Story's over.

"People are hypocrites," I told Ella last night.

"Of course," she agreed. Thankfully. "But don't forget na not all people are the same, just like your fingers when you spread your hands."

Suddenly I thought nobody would ever agree with me. This cynicism will last forever.

This year, like every other year, is the year of everybody else. It sucks to be me, and I'm sure you think it sucks to be you. You supply the conclusion. I can't think of any.

Day three. I am disoriented.

Actually, I am sleepy. No thanks to what I decided to listen to; I am perfectly aware that their midnight programming would be their sleepiest tracks yet, precisely because it's on at midnight. And besides, I never drifted to drowsiness during the first few hours or my shift, despite the (surprising yet unsurprising) lack of things to write about.

Someone took the Oscar nominations. I was tasked to do 24 profiles.

So I start typing them down. I've encountered some of them before. The others are new, a testament to my lack of television watching - an irony and a cause - and the geographical difference that all of us here face. Or, should I say, I face.

It's been different over the past week. Then again, it's like all the other weeks. What you've grown used to seeing will suddenly be taken away from you. Right now I'm no longer facing a window; instead, I'm seeing five computers, each with five people. Comment spammers, I suppose, but that's not what you call them. You're supposed to either look at the monitor, or at the half-heads that appear behind the cubicles.

I don't actually know what to feel. I choose not to be pessimistic right now, but I can't be optimistic either. I don't feel elated, nor infuriated.

I know that I should be annoyed after finding out that I haven't got loose change.

I know that I should be confused about why some people think I'm annoying other people.

I know that I should be angry upon seeing that sheepish grin at the start of the day.

I know that I should be insinuating at other people's intentions, or whether they're being sincere or not.

I know that I should be jumping up and down, while restrained to this desk, after taking a sneak peek at those eyes.

Instead, I decided to go down for lunch at two in the afternoon, buy myself a hotdog sandwich, and actually have ketchup with my fries.

So that's how it feels.

Open your eyes.

Don't get up. Turn everything off. Tap the snooze button. Tap the snooze button again. Don't comprehend what your mother is telling you. Tap the snooze button again.

Walk gently. Walk with nary a sound. Or, at least, muffle every sound you make. Plan everything. Have loose change ready beforehand. Pay when you have to. Take a seat. Get squeezed. Close your eyes. Let gravity be.

Walk gently. Mind your right leg. Do nothing if it hurts.

Take a seat. Press a button. Bring out a water bottle. Think of where to throw it. Type in your password. Log in. Stay invisible. Remain invisible for the next ten hours.

Turn everything off.

Delay for a minute. Or ten. Or sixty. Think about it. Realize that sixty minutes is an hour. Stay idle for two. Talk to someone you don't usually talk to. Talk to someone you usually talk to. Talk to no one you're supposed to talk to. Open a second window.

Open a third. A fourth. Start typing.

Continue typing.

Entertain those worthy of your attention.

Think about it. Wonder if you're being paranoid. Wonder if you're doing the right thing. Or if they're doing the right thing. Or the wrong thing. Or anything. If they're doing it intentionally. Or otherwise. Or if you're doing it intentionally. Or otherwise. Or if anybody will invite you for lunch. Or whether you should do it alone.

Compare yourself. You're disconnected from the world. Or they are disconnecting from you. You think bad things. You mull whether you're doing the right thing. But they deserve it. But they don't. But it's your fault. But it's their fault. They don't understand. You don't understand.

Keep your earphones on. Switch stations. Drown out the noise.

Think about leaving. Take the day off. The week. The month. Forever. Write a letter. Ditch everything. Drink a bottle. Two bottles. Three. Sixteen pills. Go to sleep. Know that everybody else does it better than you. Always.

Forget your feelings. They don't matter to them. You're expendable. You're easily replaced. Of no use to anybody.

It's your fault. It's their fault. It's everybody's. Nobody's. Yours.

Tap the snooze button.

Burnout.

"Okay ka lang?" Kris asked.

"Obviously, hindi," I answered.

I attempted to chuckle, but it came out so feebly I felt the insincerity come out of me. Or, it's the only time I figured sarcasm would make me feel good.

I fell off my chair. Well, it's more of the chair giving way as I sat. Two of its five legs cracked and gave way, giving me a ticket to the blue carpeted floor. I type this with a painful right shoulder and left elbow.

But it was the only time I got the others' attention. Neobie was bewildered. Glenn tried to explain things. I felt worse.

Today is the worst day of my life.

I am seated on a new desk, my third in seven months. Another account needed the chair since they're having a hard time communicating, which is something I obviously understood, with me being practical by all means. Obviously, however, I was hesitant. My last fragment of physical inclusion is being taken away from me, and I didn't argue against it.

After all, it's my only chance of being part of something, where I am right now. Instead, I find myself in a different row of computers, away from the window I've relied on, and away from the sightings that both hurt me yet keep me going.

Instead, I hear three people laughing behind me.

It's an unusually quiet day at work. I'm not chatting with anybody. The usual ones aren't answering, or aren't there. Well, Ella was surprised that I got to work early. Before eight in the morning. I've been compensating, overcompensating, for my late arrivals the past two days.

I've tried my hardest to waste time, and so far I've been successful. I felt a little better after writing an unwarranted editorial, only to have whatever I'm listening to buffer. Break into pieces. Everything else in the background.

Today, really, is the worst day of my life.

And I don't want any of you to say that I'm just making a big deal out of a day on the wrong side of the bed. Or that everything will be better tomorrow. Or that I've got to look up and ahead, because in the next six weeks I might be out of here, provided the horoscopes are correct, or if I decide to do something. In that case, I'll have a simple retort: you just don't understand me.

Efficiency! Efficiency! Efficiency!

Katia was right. At this point you don't care whether you mess up everything that you do or not. You just don't care anymore.

Somebody, please consider my job application.

Suddenly I found myself walking a couple of kilometers.

Thankfully I had an idea where I was. Ayala Avenue can only get you so far, and in my case, after three pedestrian underpasses and a handful of familiar buildings, I found myself at the sliding doors of Glorietta 3. I was only walking for fifteen minutes - never mind the fact that there were jeepneys passing by - when I felt a pain that was familiar to me, especially since I was in Singapore a few weeks back. And then, I thought, I should've brought a different pair of shoes.

Jackie and Ariane, on the other hand, were just seated on one of the couches at Glorietta 4. I was supposed to be there at eleven in the morning, but I arrived an hour later, which is obviously something that I didn't want to happen. The funnier thing is, I was the one who set the call time, since I was the one who organized the thing, and I was the one who had the money to spend.

Yep, I figured it was just an excuse to go out.

"On call naman kami lagi ni Ariane," Jackie posted on my Facebook page at the beginning of the year. With that in mind, as well as the fact that she just left her job and moved to another one, I decided to just call for a meet-up. I figured we'd celebrate the fact that she's left her job; it's no secret she wasn't happy there anymore. Inevitably the thing was about my birthday, and someone with disposable income was bound to treat someone to something. In my case, it was lunch on a hastily-arranged Saturday, when one was out to work and another was out to a doctor's appointment. I had everything planned out, as it should be. And everything, well almost, didn't go to plan, as it should be.

"Nagdadalawang-isip na ako kung magta-trabaho pa ako sa Makati," I quipped when I finally got to their couch. Before we knew it, I was walking again.

Lunch was at TGI Friday's, since another part of our plan failed, and I ended up shelling out two thousand bucks. Jackie paid for dessert, and Ariane was happy to be the one with the lowest salary. I was saved by a P500-off voucher that I got when I got into the mall - a silly coincidence, perhaps, because I thought I wouldn't have any use for it when I decided to take the thing from the lady at the entrance.

Obviously, though, I wasn't in it for the food, but rather, for the company. As usual, I wasn't disappointed, although it wasn't really a catch-up session like most mini-reunions go. I thought we'd talk about Monday, as was half-promised during those online conversations when we were stuck on our desks at our respective offices. Instead, it was just one of those conversations that we used to have in school. The thesis partners were talking, and I just nodded in agreement, feeling bits of isolation until I find an opening. We were only faced with huge slabs of meat, and later, small desserts.

It was a big deal for me, though. I'm not the type of person who goes out on weekends. Well, that, and my friends don't invite me to anything, unless it's a formal occasion. Then again, we're young professionals - I shudder at the "yuppie" term, really - and, as was argued time and time again, we're somehow free to do the things that we want, or at least those within reason. Doing something that everybody else around me has been doing for ages - weekend trips at the mall, DVD afternoons at someone's pad, bar-hopping at some "kewl" district - is actually liberating. Never mind spending all that money. Never mind feeling bad when I saw my bank account only had that much money left, even if I spent a load on food for my birthday, and a load for treatments in the dermatologist, and a (badly-placed) load for a haircut.

We ended up watching The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, after both girls were done with their respective obligations. You can't just have lunch at a strange place and go home immediately afterwards, right? I ended up going home teary-eyed, reeling from having to cry at the cinema two times, and even finding a need to hug Jackie, while we were all still seated, as the credits flashed. At that moment, I just wanted to go on. It felt like I should've gone on. I believe it's called liberation.

I'm a neat freak. Regularly I take a look at all of the blogs that I link to, and see whether anyone's been updating or not. I guess it's my past as an aspiring computer geek, buying books on web design and hard-coding in between school breaks: a bit of advice I gleaned from one goes something like, "don't post anything if you won't update it anyway." Nobody likes to see an under construction page, it argued. So, whenever I see a blog that's not been updated for months, or has disappeared entirely from the face of the earth, off goes the thumbnail. Toss!

So all of those blogs I used to read have, well, faded into oblivion. So many people have wondered how I still manage to post entries on an almost-daily basis, despite being drowned with obligations, work-related or otherwise. I myself have wondered, too, how I managed to keep up with all the writing while so many of my blogging friends have stopped entirely. Obligations have, of course, caught up with all of us by then. It was definitely a different thing during my first four terms in college - I couldn't keep up, or I haven't learned to keep up, with all the new entries, even if they were all just pasted online conversations, or stuff that I didn't understand.

I am still bored in the office, for the last four hours of my shift or so. Rather than be bothered by exclusive conversations - oh, I'm sorry, I still was - I was bringing myself back to years that have passed.

"Caps lock for you!"

That, by the way, was something that I never was a part of. But funny, isn't it? It was Nico and Kim, an inside joke that only the members of the BonoSoc probably understood, posted quite a handful of times. On the same months, there were a handful of thank-yous to classmate after classmate after classmate, or those terms of endearment, like Lau being Kim's "girlfriend", or something like it.

Now, me not understanding it was not a good thing. I have an ego, and it hasn't been nurtured, more so during my first years in a really big place. Long-term readers are perhaps more than familiar with my many struggles adjusting, with me thinking about whether I'd be able to make any friends, and whether my blockmates actually give a toss about me or are more than willing to fake the friendship and stab my back. Quite simply, it's because I never really got up to speed.

Three years later, I was having lunch with Valerie, for some peculiar reason - she wanted spaghetti, I didn't have any plans, she started everything. While telling the already-scratchy story of three years of (differently-placed) obscurity, I realized again how much fun those old times have been. None of those stories really made it to the conversation - my mindset was still on a later time period - but for some reason, I missed it all over again. Funny thinking that three years ago, I was anxious and depressed, and three years later, I would miss it as if it was the most blissful thing that ever happened to my life. And I am anxious and depressed, too.

Back at the office, I began browsing all those old blog entries, from all those blogs that I have removed from my links because they weren't updating anymore. So there I was, back on Kim's blog, and all those entries about inside jokes and newly-formed lovebirds. The end came with the apologies, a fairly controversial move on her part. It was almost two years ago. Suddenly that's forgotten and glossed over. Human nature, at the very least.

And Caresse's blog entries have disappeared, perhaps after the split-up. And Malia's blog has disappeared altogether. And Jana's blog is still stuck on a year-old time warp about final exams. That kind of stuff.

Thanks to my sickly ego, I started looking for those old blog entries that actually mention my name, almost always in a good light, and only because they won't dare tell me if it's otherwise, for sure. I found a handful. The next thing you know, you're thinking too much again, and you realize that you're in the same situation as you were three years ago. Later, we'll have these conversations about different people, with different people. It's a good thing the connections are still there and the meet-ups are more than possible.

Maybe in the future my situation with these people will change.

"Maybe you really like her. Not as much as you think you do, but the feeling is still there. That's sincere, sort of. Selfish, in the sense that you could be using her to just get that feeling for yourself."

"Although I wasn't very aware of that, although I've been bent on letting go, especially when it gets serious, right. I hate it when I feel that way, the need to let go because it wrecks havoc. Now I see that as being insensitive, ironically, to someone insensitive in the first place."

"Why should it bother you, then? Do you feel that your being insensitive to her is somehow hurting her?"

"I'm not bothered because of what it'd do to her. I'm bothered because of what I'm doing, partly because it isn't right, and partly because I don't care if it's right."

"What do you mean it isn't right? Liking someone?"

"And disregarding the other side."

"What's wrong with that? You don't bother saying anything to her anyway. She remains oblivious to it all."

"I'm probably just not used to it. Never mind those flashes of brilliance when I end up deducing she knows, or has an idea, or something. I don't know. I'm bothered for no apparent reason, although that's probably what I want. A sort of distraction, perhaps."

"You're just torturing yourself."

"I'm pathetic, am I?"

"No. You just don't know how to feel about it. You're confused."

"So, I can't get started, I can't figure out whether it's love, I can't determine whether she hates me or not, I can't even collect the courage to send out the good mornings. I guess that makes me pathetic. Or maybe to myself, I don't know."

"Maybe you're just infatuated."

"That's the easiest answer."

"Stick to it."

I haven't made it through a week yet, and yet I'm already irritable. Very irritable. I think I argued with many unsuspecting people over the past couple of days. I think I've changed a few things forever - the paranoia crap, also known as the frosh year - and I've always been apologetic, at least to myself, on the day after. Only on the day after.

The serene, secure nature that greeted me during the new year has since given way to the usual cynicism and insecurity. My low self-esteem is back, and in a snap of a finger at that. Or, one text message and a handful of crucial decisions.

I've been sitting on my new desk for around four days now. It's pointless, for one, and although you'd probably highlight the advantages ("the gap is just one seat rather than two!"), I'd be quick to play the downside ("there's a bigger exposure to being left behind!"). And, I can't see the window outside anymore. The blinds here are so covered up, I don't even have an idea whether it's raining or not. At least the view got a little better.

Still, yes, the low self-esteem.

I've been doing virtually nothing for the last six hours of my shift. Kris said I should be taking advantage of that lull, because - and I said so myself - when the new shows hit the airwaves, I'll be writing more and more stuff. I blame it on the lack of anything concrete to work with. Thus, as I explained to many other people over the past week, idleness gives me that feeling of worthlessness, something that Valerie was quick to refute: "Sakit ng Lasallians yan. Hindi ka nag-iisa."

All I've been doing is explain myself to an audience that isn't really willing to listen to my explanations.

Today, I found myself going down for lunch in a jiffy. I was hungry, for one, having eaten a smaller amount of food in the morning than usual. Another reason, well, I don't know. It just felt like I had to rush, to the point that I was feeling my stomach turn and my pulse spike up as I walked to McDonald's for take-out. I didn't know going to a fast food restaurant serves for an adventure. I got there, gave my order, got my plastic bags, and walked back. That was actually it.

Sometimes I wonder why I do the weirdest things with the most mundane of situations. What everybody else can do effortlessly, I'll have to measure, and measure, and measure again. Sure, I'll look like a fool whenever I try to get my fingers to work, either by waving, or by texting something uplifting (Ariane, I failed here when I got seriously dismayed), or by just doing what you have to do. More often than not, I look puzzled thinking whether I'm in the right place, at the right time, with the right people.

I'm torn with living up to responsibilities and doing what comes naturally to me. But hey, that's different from losing your self-esteem, and that's happening right about now...

Jason suddenly popped in. "Punta ka sa despedida ko," he said.

"The details?" I answered, hoping it doesn't happen on the day after my birthday. It was, after all, the most convenient date for anything, being a Saturday that smoothly eases into a Sunday.

"January 9!" he sprung.

"Mas lalong hindi ako available niyan," I said.

Sure, it was just in the Ortigas area, a shorter walk from my office. But I still maintain that it was the worst date he could possibly pick for a send-off party. I understand that he'd want me there, us being thesis partners and all, but it was my birthday. Definitely I'd have prior commitments. You know, birthday stuff.

Yet, I still wanted a compromise of sorts. "Tignan natin," I said. "I might drop by kahit saglit lang. But hindi ako sure sa plans for my birthday, eh."

Perhaps he forgot. "Kailan ba birthday mo?" he answered.

"Sa January 9," I said.

"Wow," he went. "Happy birthday!"

Photos of the event were quick to make their way to my inbox, and only then did I feel guilty for turning down the invitation. Perhaps it was my fault that I kept him hanging, with a promise I wasn't ready to keep, although that's putting too much drama to something I didn't have any control over. He was still sending me text messages about the event as late as the afternoon before, with instructions on how to go to the hotel and how to bypass the front desk. (I still don't know the Ortigas area; I didn't know where the thing was held before that text message came.) I just had to deliver the last blow: "Di talaga kaya, Jason. May dinner kami so diretso na ako dun."

For some reason, I still found these series of events funny. Sure, we're thesis partners and blockmates, having spent practically three years in the same situations, but this state of friendship wasn't exactly expected. More often than not, we disagreed - with the way he did things, with the way he dealt with people, with the way he thought. He's eccentric, perhaps weird, perhaps overbearing and demanding, and eventually he'll get to you. Even his closest friends will probably attest to that. I don't really know.

To be honest, I actually remember our arguments more. I threw him a jacket in disgust at the amphitheater. Sophomore year. I yelled an expletive, he threw it back, we were in cahoots for a few days. Thesis, I was crying when he said I wasn't doing anything, which I thought was a very unfair assessment - I needed my balance wheels, I'll admit, but that was too much. Imagine the kilobytes spent seething in anger.

Yet, it was him who gave me a chance. A lot of them, even. I probably did more school projects with him than anybody else - reinterpreting the Backstreet Boys, dealing with Filipino humor, and eventually, two terms of creating a supposedly deeply personal short film. Before, it was a grouping out of necessity, us being the only blockmates in a class half-surrounded with strangers. For some reason, my sucking up and my standing up got somewhere.

"Ikaw lang kasi ang nakakausap ko ng ganito," he said during a lunch at the Gateway Mall, after one of our shoots. Freshman year. I myself was confused.

The last time we met, he invited me to his graduation from a film workshop he had just finished. The very proud film director was bent on showing me our thesis, which he reedited and shortened. I sensed a tinge of regret in him, for not having thought of the idea while we were all still working on it. The video wasn't on his iPod, for some peculiar reason. He promised he'll send me a copy. As our conversation veered towards film criticism, I was proud of myself. I really can bluff.

I've long known that he's leaving for the United States. He's always been there, having visited his mother during term breaks. I've known far too much about him, or at least beyond what one usually knows - the bank deposits, the back story, the little bits that you wouldn't expect. It didn't take long before I managed to put the puzzle together - the unsolicited advice he'd give me about accepting job offers, the teasing he'd make about whoever I was having a crush on, and perhaps inevitably, my stuck-in-a-box friendship with Issa - but I never figured it out. Perhaps I never bothered to.

I didn't go to his grandmother's wake. Perhaps it's something I should've regretted. But I figured me sending my condolences and keeping my distance was enough.

It's actually funny not being able to figure out these things.

The send-off was something I wouldn't have probably survived. Jenn said she'd feel out of place; I thought the same, even if I knew everybody. Alcohol and smoke and truth and consequences, and long gloopy speeches that merely repeat what we already know. And applause inside a cramped room. And me wanting to fall asleep, unless I decide to fall for someone again, or if I'm drunk. But I doubt he'd let me.

Reading on how much fun they've had, I still figured I did the right decision in skipping. Still guilty, though. It's taken me this long to realize that one of the better friends I've encountered in my life is flying back to the United States, probably for good.

What exactly is it with turning twenty years old? Almost everybody that I've seen turn twenty braced it. And for the most obscure reason at that: it's goodbye to the teenage years, and hello to adulthood, and already it's something very subjective, depending if you're 16, 18 or 21.

As for me, well, I just woke up and received Icka's text message. Flat out midnight.

"Happy birthday!"

"Get ready," I told myself, as I turned off my phone and went back to sleep.

The past few hours haven't been much, really. It's my birthday, sure, but it's not the biggest thing in the world. Before, I was very excited about who'll send me a text message, and who wouldn't, but now, my mind was just to get through the day, and maybe catch up on some sleep. Then there was the trip to the office itself, when I found myself squirming in my seat as the minutes passed on. "Relief," I later told Icka, as I got out the toilet of another office building. "I hope this lasts for the next ten years."

Perhaps I should have paid attention to what she was telling me an hour before. "It sucks," she said, referring to the third decade of one's life. "But you'll get used to it."

Things have gone weirdly today. Against expectations, I was perky, although I wasn't exactly bent on feeling depressed. Let's just say I wasn't expecting much. I wasn't, after all, surrounded by people who genuinely care. There's a difference between Jackie's "thanks for always listening to my frustrations" bit and Kris' "happy birthday" bit, with a smiley face in the end. But one can't help but just look forward to something, especially when you feel that things are going to stack in your favor. For once.

Even just for one day. And then you'll be sorely disappointed.

This is, after all, just the start of the next ten years of your life. It did hit me as I took a bath. The next time something like this will happen, I'm already thirty years old, holding with a stable job that pays for the kids' education. At one point, I've got to make the right decisions. It's actually called pressure, and it's something I haven't had in a while, partly because I've been feeling so serene, so secure about myself, for the past four days. So what if I had this terrible relapse that was expressed only through text messages? Tomorrow, it will all be gone, it will be a fresh new slate, it will be a new chance to do the things you haven't done.

And then, predictably so, you remember why you did the things you've been doing.

Turning twenty is a subtle indicator, really, that it's high time to take responsibility for everything in your life. That is how it feels - more than getting past a certain stage, and losing all the comfort that comes with it, it's a call to arms, to get in charge, to do the things you have to do. Certainly I've been trying my hardest to have a semblance to that - that everything I'm doing has an impact on what I'll be, and what I'll be able to do, tomorrow. It's a justification for the crazy ideas that you've been playing in your head for the world to hear. Heck, I don't care if they hear it and scoff, because despite my supposedly detailed descriptions, they don't even know how it feels to sit in this chair, being surrounded by people typing left and right, ideally isolated, forcefully so. All of this, it's for something that should be coming soon, provided I do the right things - and, of course, I'm bent on doing just that. I'm bent on being head-on in everything, in living through hell and going out stronger, in saying what you feel despite the implications.

But right now, when the usual laughter gets me repulsive? I again thought it was over, but I think it'll be one of the most painful transitions I'll have to go through.

On with the messages, then.

My first umbrella was a good one. It felt sturdy and it covered a surprisingly wide area for a two-fold, but it was really big. The idea was for my umbrella to be easy to bring, something I could put in my bag and carry every time I go to work. The best I could do, however, was put two-thirds of it inside, with the handle sticking out of one corner of the bag. Still, it means it was easy to grab when it suddenly rains hard and I'm in the middle of the Ortigas Center, walking to the shuttles, or to anywhere else I have to go.

Perhaps that factor led to it getting lost at the start of the year.

My mother bought the umbrella, albeit temporarily: I had to pay around P350 when I got home. The new one costs a little over half that, but seemed to have the same qualities, or maybe better: the two-fold may be covering a smaller area than before, but at least I can put it inside my bag and not have the entire handle stick out. It feels less sturdy, though, but I don't think it'll suffer the fate of an umbrella I borrowed in the middle of the typhoon - it just broke up before I could even use it.

We've had disagreements since I lost the umbrella. She argued that it got lost because I insisted on bring it every single day, even if the weather reports don't indicate anything about rain. I argued that weather is unpredictable, something that I've proven to myself in many cases, when a sunny day in Bacoor turns out to be a dark rain cloud in Pasig. Still, she won the entire thing, by suggesting - and that's putting it gently - that I not bring my umbrella unless it's the rainy season. It was reasonable, I figured, so I did just that.

But here's where the weather became predictable: it started to rain. Yesterday there were just drizzles, nothing that my jacket - which I can bring every day, thankfully - couldn't handle. The rain drops were of the light variety, half-torrential but finer as compared to those days when classes are suspended and work isn't. Today, though, I was awake inside the shuttle to work and I thought that tomorrow could be my first rainy birthday. The highway was seriously wet. The rains were basically torrential.

I made it through without the jacket, thankfully, as the skies were merely gloomy in our office. As I felt my bag sway further from my shoulder - it was lighter, of course - I walked to the office and hoped not to step on a puddle, and not to see nothing from the window throughout the day. Inevitably, I wouldn't notice anything but the other employees look out of the windows, moving the blinds, and seeing nothing, and that's when I confirmed my worst fears for the day. The rains were, yeah, basically torrential.

"So you went to the office without an umbrella?" Adette suddenly asked.

"Yeah," I answered. "I have a jacket, but that wouldn't hold." I was now looking out the window, and all I can see were drops of rain that were blown off by the strong winds that characterize San Miguel Avenue. I felt my journalistic streak come in. "Rain outside seems to be torrential times twenty-three."

"Yup," she answered. "It's the same here in Makati."

Of course, I regretted not bringing my umbrella. I felt that it would rain, since there was some degree of precipitation yesterday, but thought the jacket could hold it. This time, I was stuck inside an office in the middle of the day, thinking about how I'll be able to get out and buy myself lunch. I was more worried about buying my lunch than getting home with as less moisture as possible.

"What if I buy food na?" I volunteered.

"If pwede, why not?" she asked.

"Well, for one I'll look ridiculous," I answered. It was ten minutes to eleven. Just ten minutes to eleven.

"Eh kaysa naman hindi ka makakain ng lunch mamaya dahil super lakas ng ulan," she argued. "Pero what if mamayang lunch time saka gumanda lalo yung weather, di ba?"

"Yun nga lang," I conceded. "The damn what-ifs."

The conversation ended before the top of the hour, and twenty minutes later, I found myself going down the building, jacket in shoulders and hood in head, to buy myself something. It was a drizzle that my jacket couldn't handle. Or a drizzle that didn't need a jacket, but you'll never know when you'll get caught in the rain. That never happened, even if I was stuck in line for a good twenty minutes.

I only ate lunch an hour after I got back, as I finished the last of my articles. There were two bags of fast food on our row of computers. A damn what-if right there.

I still felt distorted with the way things have gone this week. I've been going to the office by myself, but for some reason I was logged in an hour before my shift began. I didn't bring my new umbrella, partly because my mother asked me not to, only to see small drops of rain on the window of the van I was in.

I'm bound to be sharing today with someone.

"Welcome back, Valerie."

"Thanks, ah."

She was feeling, well, I don't know. It's her first day on training since the surprisingly long holiday break beckoned. Yesterday we were talking about David Cook and everything that connects him to Missy Higgins, and you wouldn't sense that dread that she seemed to have now. Or it was the gloomy skies. Or it was Wednesdays in general.

"I'm sooo stupid. I forgot my baon at home. Brilliant, no?"

"I can make libre to you."

And I felt like reiterating it, a minute later. "I'm serious," I said. "Pagbigyan na! Impulsive move to. Baka bawiin ko."

So we did end up meeting up. Her new office, after all, is in the same block as her old one. The only difference, maybe, is the fact that she has to be there for two years - no, make that a year and two-thirds. And that she has to learn what she learned in school before, although she'd maintain that she chose the wrong path.

Neither of us could decide, but she missed eating at KFC, so KFC it was. It does suck having no salary for roughly six weeks. Or being held for roughly two years.

The conversation all through was the usual, especially since I don't have much office gossip to tell, thanks to my half-banished position in the world. Still, someone's got an issue with Star World. Someone's got an issue with the rain. Someone's got an issue with Java programming, and with curry sauce, and with double patties, and with failing vision, and with hair cuts, and with incessant thought bubbles. We still managed to waste a good hour, partly in the nearby supermarket, when Valerie had to go to the cashier twice for realizing her hate of iced tea in fast food restaurants. For me, I also managed to waste almost my entire budget for a day, which worked to my advantage, as I teased her about the guitar she's always wanted to buy.

The rain started to fall as we went back.

I don't remember what the joke was all about - a vow to stay serene, as I described myself, for the rest of the shift - but for some reason I was so amused I hugged her. And then I thought that I shouldn't have. This is not, after all, college, where you can go and hug your friends randomly, or not so. This is the corporate world - really? - where friendships are not supposed to happen. Professional relationships. That's the word.

"Alam mo, ganyan din ako minsan sa mga classmates ko sa training. Nahahawakan ko sila ng bigla-bigla. Eh, kasi naman, touchy person ako."

"Pasensya na. Kasi naman, touchy person rin ako, hindi tulad ni..."

We both knew I had to stop myself.

It's all in a matter of how you start things.

I woke up last Saturday feeling fairly distressed. The idea was, I'll be going back to work in two days, and I'm still hung over from having arrived from Singapore less than twelve hours prior.

I slept last night feeling a little relieved. The idea was, I'll be going back to work in less than twelve hours, and I'm hung over from having prepared myself from falling into a routine less than two hours prior.

I woke up today without hearing my phone sound the alarm. I shouldn't be covering it, I guess.

I went to Ortigas by myself, as I'm the only one, apart from my brother, whose holiday has given way to the mundane. Everybody else is going back to whatever it is, which means traffic along South Luzon Expressway is going to be a killer. And, as always, I was right.

I arrived at that particular corner around fifteen past eight, walked across two streets, went up the elevator, logged in, opened the computer, and realized that I dropped my umbrella somewhere.

I went down the same fifteen floors and crossed the same two streets. Nothing. I figured I'll buy myself a new umbrella when I get home.

I went up those fifteen floors. I still haven't received an email, which meant Neobie took a chance in asking someone as unreliable as me.

Six movie posts.

Another article on American Idol. Start feeling unproductive.

Kris starts asking about my week-long Singapore trip. I'm having withdrawal struggles, I said. She apparently splurged on a restaurant offering Singaporean food because she missed the island-state so much. I feel that I've been doing significantly less, to the point of having this conversation.

Finally, an email from the folks at Seattle. Yes, I should do profiles for each couple, rather than each individual, on the upcoming season of The Biggest Loser. Cue two hours on eleven profiles. There's a sudden burst of creativity. Ooooh, productivity, how I missed you.

But maybe I had too much productivity. I failed to notice the girls leave. I forgot the very point of going to work. But I also forgot the very point of not wanting to go to work. Well, at least until five.

Email gets sent. The rest of my shift was dedicated to Valerie and despairing over a half-minute voice sample. And, you know, the usual.

I decided to talk to the new girl at work today, just as we waited for an elevator down.

"What's your name again?" I asked.

"Diane."

"Niko," I said, offering my hand. "But that's not what they call me here."

I got myself the umbrella, and I went home, thinking that I'll arrive later than usual since I spent around thirty minutes in the department store. And, as always, I was wrong.

"If, one, you didn't come out, and two, if things meant I was falling for you and I decided to do something about it, then would you give me a chance?"

"You and me? Anong tanong yan? Are you serious?"

"Wala ako in priest mode."

"Pano mo nasabi yung number two, aber?"

"Akala ko halata na! Naalala ko kasi yung sinabi ko kay Clarence minsan. 'Alam mo, crush ko si Elaine.' Passing thought lang. Natawa na lang ako na nauna yung photo ko sa'yo sa GMG booth, tapos nag-meet tayo. Tapos wala lang."

"Hindi kaya halata..."

"Ganun?"

"And when did you say that to ate Clarence?"

"Nung nag-shoot kami sa kanila. Last year, yeah."

"Okay, back to your question. Wala pa akong naging boyfriend sa La Salle, eh. I've dated some, pero dein okay kasi parang panakip-butas lang sa dati kong guy. Tapos he's gay pala. Sobrang na-hurt ako."

"Hala."

"So yun... sige, dein din, Henrik. Trust me, magulo akong tao. I wouldn't want to hurt you or anyone."

"Ayun. Naisip ko lang. Salamat sa kasagutan. Manunumbalik na ako sa pagkapari."

"Pero di talaga halata. Grabe ka magtago."

"Ganun? I've always thought ako ang pinaka-obvious na tao. Well, in your case I never had a chance to express it. At least until the holy water came and it faded away. I only wrote one blog entry about it."

"Hindi talaga... pero Henrik, first impression ko, parang ikaw yung tipong nagkaka-crush sa marami, though."

"Naisip ko rin. Pero stick to one crush ako, eh."

"Wait lang. Basahin ko."

"Trust me. Hindi obvious yan."

"I give a damn about what you write! Galing mo nga, eh..."

"Mag-blush ba dapat ako?"

"Aww Henrik... something happened in the past ba? Don't dwell on it. Girls are different."

"Know what? I haven't pursued anyone. Hanggang sa mga sinusulat ko lang siya palagi."

"It's all right. Kasi... di mo sinasabi yata directly sa person na gusto mo siya, eh."

"Never have. And yet I increasingly feel that I have to. And I always decide not to. Ewan. Labo, ano? Inggit ako sa ibang guys. They like a girl, sige, try lang. Ako, parang, you should get this right."

"Oo nga, labo... pero alam mo, gusto ng girls yung honest boys. I mean, if you like her, tell her."

"It's only there where I'll never be honest. Look. It took me a year to tell you. A year, a running joke, a girlfriend... sometimes it passes and me saying it doesn't happen. It isn't worth it anymore."

"Awww... no regrets, okay? It's good that you told me, though. Di talaga halata."

"I told you because I knew there wouldn't be any regrets."

"Alam mo, halata ng girlfriend ko. Na may something."

Out of boredom on Christmas eve, I was telling Jackie, who was by then already on leave and is happily in Cagayan, that I imagined her writing for the local version of Marie Claire than a teen girl magazine such as Candy. That was a sincere comment, but I didn't expect her to be so surprised.

"Niko, reading Marie Claire?"

I can't remember what I exactly said. Maybe something like, I read everything anyway, before the discussion somehow shifted to the copies of FHM and Playboy lying around in her office. But we all know we're frustrated in this regard. We've taken the first step, but somehow we feel we should've taken another. Or, at least, taking the next one.

Well, she is moving to another job - dang, I forgot to ask her if it really is for the National Press Club, as Jenn told me - and I, in my famous fit of frustration, am staying put. I had a conversation with my new supervisor, Sir Cyrus, and as if it wasn't any obvious to me already, he had to reiterate it.

"By personal experience, you'll have to stay here for a year before people will even consider you."

To think that I used to think that waiting for six months before sending out new applications is enough.

You can imagine how frustrating it gets, really. I enjoy my work - all the other factors are, of course, a totally different story - but somehow it feels the way it feels like. Just like that. Of course, we were taught to go out and actually use our heads, and although I am managing to do a work-around with the things I do, somehow, being static on the television screen isn't a good experience.

"So, Neobie," Glenn asked again, "kailan ka magre-resign?"

"Hindi ko pa alam," she answered, while I squirmed at the possibility of losing a lifeline and having someone go before I do.

"Ang funny, nauna pa ako sa'yo," Jackie said earlier.

I figured I'll stack up on credentials, although right now I'm worrying about whether those credentials will actually work to my advantage. Last Saturday I was with my mother at the parlor - yes, you read that right, although I was merely flipping through copies of Preview and Marie Claire, and while I was thinking of what I might be asked to write in the future, I was wondering whether I really am going to be up for it. Oh, I really regret being five years too late in the game.

Seeing that editorial assistants for those magazines actually get a prominent place in the masthead scared me even more. I might not really have a chance.

But I'm just turning twenty. Maybe I'm not too late. I still can't help but feel that I'll miss the net, and there's no acceptable option beyond that. Oh, and optimism isn't a good choice for this one, either. It doesn't just take good writing skills, or whatever amounts to it nowadays. I might just have nowhere else to go. Oh, she's smiling in glee...