By now I don't think I have to reiterate that lunch is the only time I get myself some much needed reflection. Depends, really. I either write article outlines on the back of the receipt, or concentrate hard on whatever my earphones are playing me, or - and this happen more often than not - contemplate on the food I'm eating. Since I eat later than most, I end up getting hungrier, and perhaps, more appreciative.

Yesterday was just one of those days. It's usually quiet (and empty) by one in the afternoon, which is why I prefer eating at that time. I can just stare blankly into space and imitate sleep without closing my eyes. Also, it's summer - although it doesn't feel that way - and there aren't any students who will loiter around Pearl Drive. They're not exactly annoying, but I'm annoyed at them anyway, partly because I'm done with what they're doing, and partly because they all look like my friends in DLSU - one looked like Raymond, another looked like Gaille, and I swear one of them looks like Misha.

Alas, I think UA&P has summer classes.

Yesterday, I ate lunch later than usual, after my schedule for the day - one finely tweaked since I only have to go to work for four days this week - was disrupted by, of all things, technology. (Kat knows it still does today.) I was already surprised after seeing the usual lookers smoking in front of Starbucks. I was more surprised when I dropped by Chiggy's and saw a group - seven girls and one boy, or is he? - talking loudly over empty plates and bottles of beer. They're probably around 17 or 18, I don't know. And what struck me the most is, that's what I used to do a few years back.

Well, except for the beer. I never drank beer throughout my college life until Monica's graduation afterparty. Anyway, I meant eating with groups - although that's another thing I did rarely, since I almost always ate alone unless it was either course card distribution day, or something involving thesis. (If I ate with company, it's never a group; it's just one other person. Case in point: Naomi after philosophy class.) And, of course, there are the things that go with eating with groups: the jokes, the jibes, the shouty conversations, the dares, the inside references, basically anything that made the group the group.

Three years ago, I badly wanted a group, and never really came close to having one, as if being everybody's friend (but never anybody's best friend) is enough consolation for all the crap in the world. I wanted company back then, the way I still do now. But maybe I won't be able to take it.

I already had earphones on, and the volume was reaching impossibly high levels, but I was still hearing the kids. Shouting. Shouting with glee. Shouting with light-hearted derision. Shouting like they're playing some game, like someone's doing some interesting yet life-threatening dare, like that person's social standing mattered. But that's putting too much to it. I'm guessing you know what I mean - how else could someone who's never had that much attention describe it?

I got annoyed. So annoyed.

Well, there's etiquette, and in a small restaurant you shouldn't be shouting. (If me talking in a modulated volume always elicits a "hinaan mo!" comment from friends, well, I do have a right to be annoyed.) And then there's them having fun - for some reason the sound of laughter annoys the hell out of me, something I definitely acquired from the past ten months. But I don't know. I was already jarred, and here they are, carefree people, jarring me further.

I'm guessing it's a belated welcome to the outrageously manipulated and forever exploited labor force. There's taxes. And then there's everything else. And that's why we want to be like those kids again.

I'm safe until you read this.

Right, so there are the conversations. A lot of them. With a lot of people. Some more often than others. Depending on proximity, availability and accessibility, the chats would vary from random spewing of annoying buzzwords to surprisingly deep discussions about human nature. Well, that always equates to what I said I'll do, what actually happened, and what it all turned out to be. That one, I have yet to figure out. Or, we have to.

If there was a mistake, it was the attachment. Unnecessary. Definitely unnecessary. Considering that it was all based on that stupid belief that something should've happened in the past, given that I wasn't exactly a personality that lived under a rock, collecting notoreities as the terms passed. Or, you don't believe in logic, instead choosing whatever the dragons send our way.

Or, maybe, the mistake is, I became genuinely interested in you. But they said it was a good thing. Downside is, I'm not exactly equipped to talk to people, instead hoping that something good does happen. As always, it didn't. So I sat there, taking random ideas from these blue seats while typing not-so-random words for the world to see. I guess that lack of social aptitude led to me looking like a freak, which led to you thinking I'm not exactly the best person in the world to hang out with.

Either that, or you're far more inept than I am.

The problem is, I'm not leaving that interest behind until I run out. I don't need you telling me that, maybe, I'm the worst guy you had the misfortune of meeting. I think I have my presumptions working my way on that one. So, sure, I won't know more about you in socially acceptable conditions - conversations, something you don't obviously believe in - but there are other ways. Telling me off (without telling me off) just flicked a switch.

Maybe it's an unconscious decision. I don't care.

So I'm not in control of the situation. Fine. I've never been in control of my life anyway. I find ways to wrapping my finger around the story. True, theories bending facts won't work well, and I still have an objective streak in my blood - I got it from my childhood - which means it actually pains me to spin things this way. And call me a freak. Who cares? Everybody's called me that, and they don't see everything, or they don't see themselves. Catch is, you are one, too. You just happen to prefer to laugh at the jokes of some pimply dismissive bitch rather than, maybe, stick to substance or something.

And yes, this will sound juvenile. When did you start caring?

So I presume you won't care when I tell you that, yes, those conversations have led me to know who you are, without having to ask you about who you are. Clandestine, yes. Illegal, perhaps. Stalker-ish, who cares? You lose this one. I'm sure a part of you cares about what people think of you. Same as me. So you've lost control of all of that. At least for one person, and the rest of the universe, maybe, you're not the nice, quiet, intelligent girl who likes to read and write and geek over stuff.

You're this bitch - yes, buzzword - again, you're this bitch. You're this socially inept bitch who tries hard to prove that you're better than everybody else, by trying hard to be misunderstood, by talking gibberish so you'll look intellectual, by making yourself look like you're much better than, oh, say, someone who's actually interested in knowing who you are and, maybe, accept you for all of those flaws. You're the person who wants to badly to hide every little flaw you have, everything you thought was unacceptable to the society you've frowned at. You wanted it encrypted.

Well, guess what? I suck at references, but I hacked through it, and what I think you are, you cannot ever change. And you failed. I was ready to love you, and actually I already did, and perhaps I looked hopeless going about it, but the heck, it was all wrong. I regret that. But I win.

Summer rain, summer programming, and The Suite Life On Deck.

I don't really watch it. I don't even know when it's on, although my tendency to remember things somewhat vaguely means I have some idea when it's on. I chanced upon it when my sister was lazily flicking through television channels, and conveniently stopped in the middle of the usual funny scene set in a cinema, or, in this case, a big projector screen on one of the decks of the SS Tipton.

Since I've seen the predecessor, I've known a few bits about this one. It's on a boat. It's got no Ashley Tisdale, but it gets a Debby Ryan. I know that because I remember encountering that 15-year-old (supposedly) for work. "Oh, so she's the girl who replaced Ashley," I went, and then forgot all about it.

But, at least, I was struggling to remember how I encountered her exactly.

The projector at the cinema. Either Zack or Cody was trying to make someone jealous. I'm guessing it's Zack, since he's always the bratty guy. So he acts as if Bailey is his girlfriend, if only to spite his ex-girlfriend, who's currently rebounding with some fat guy. Somewhere in the end, of course, everything is revealed. The "current one" stands him up, the last one stands him up, and after some arguments about whether it's over or it isn't, both walk out.

The funny bit, for me, was when Cody found himself surrounded by more girls, only because he's crying over what's being shown. A chick flick.

In the tradition of these family-friendly comedies, everything ends with an apology and a slightly feel-good moment. So Zack, if I still got him right, came to Bailey with a sorry bear, for saying they're dating and all that. And then you see the look in her eyes, and I quickly plugged in my earphones, attempting to drown everything out with, say, whatever they call screamo rock. An inheritance from my brother.

"Here it goes," I said, somewhat cynically.

Bailey, of course, accepts the apology. And then she goes to Zack, or Cody, or I don't know, and says possibly the biggest, slightly innocent zinger I've heard on a television show.

"If you really wanted to be my girlfriend, why didn't you just ask?"

And then she approaches the offending twin, somewhat hugs him from behind, and says some other things that did disappear with the screams. Of course, the guy's a little struck, a little shocked, and definitely very swoony. She plants a kiss on his cheek, saying something along the lines of it being the cherry on top - but that's a cliché, so it never got said - and leaves.

In the tradition of these family-friendly comedies, he looks up in sheer happiness and falls to the ground, his body as straight as a stick.

And I'm already twenty years old.

Finally, I have succumbed to writing about social networking.

True, I'm quite an intensive user. I maintain a Facebook profile, while my Friendster profile is left to go the way of the dead. There's also my Last.fm page, although it's just me being a statistics dork. Obviously I have a Multiply site that saw its heyday during my college years. And if you're referring to communities, or whatever closely resembles them, there's me on the forums, and then there's LiveJournal, and then there's Twitter...

So that's a bit too much for someone at my position now - I'm done with college, supposedly busy with work and other stuff, and more importantly, supposedly over this thing and interacting with people in a more concrete setting, rather than posting barely-understood phrases that actually mean "I want to pry into your life for a bit". Then again, I'm not the type of person who spends so much time there either. My blogging is a totally different issue - being a self-described writer, that's harder to extricate - but I don't exactly go there to be amused. Not the very least playing those games on Facebook - I just don't see the point.

And, besides, I've already too much on my plate. I'm doing what I set out to do with the things I have, so why plunge into a few more? But they want my money, or better yet, they want my personal information - after all, some company probably cares when I say I'm feeling down at the office again. It's getting slightly ridiculous, the way these companies beg for your information.

I still get a lot of invitations to whatever site there is. (Thankfully it doesn't go to my primary email. If it did, I'd be telling off a lot of people.) I got an invitation from Gian, my former boss at the Student Council, a few days ago - and it was followed by two more, in a span of three hours. Today I got another one - and the way the invite presented itself as a matter of life and death is funny. "Respond within the next three minutes!" it said, making it feel like a bomb will explode somewhere in the world if I don't. The invite, by the way, was sent hours before I logged in. I'm sorry for the deaths.

And then there's the question itself. "Do you know Gian?" it asked. Well, of course, I do. I was presented with a couple of options - a simple yes-or-no thing. In case I missed it, there's this helpful (and slightly insulting) reminder: "please click either yes or no." Sure, if I clicked the first option, it tells the website that I want to join their ranks - or tell them I live in the Philippines, among others - and I don't really want that. What happens if I click no, then? Maybe a page that says, "are you telling us Gian is delirious in saying he knows you?"

It could get more desperate, though. I got another invite way back, for something totally different, that says "click yes or else Jeanna would think you're not friends," followed by a crying emoticon. We're cousins, by the way.

I'll admit, I absolutely don't know how to wrap this up. (So much for me playing up my writing chops.) But it's a little funny, or perhaps a little disturbing, seeing how real world friendships are translating online. There's being out of the loops in things on the basis of who's doing (and not doing) something, and then there's the ridiculously-implemented "hindi na tayo bati" line, which should've gone the way of the time capsule. Perhaps it's just me, but it's called networking - it's connecting to friends from past and present, and not beyond that. But maybe they've redefined it again. I should get used to it. If anything, I don't have to worry whether a crush is on whatever platform I'm on. I just have to dread the possibilities. Right, Neobie?

Krizzie's just added me up on Multiply. Ahh, the wonders.

Having lived in Cavite for most of my conscious life, I always had a fascination for SM Megamall. Shallow, sure, but I was a kid then, and it was just a stretch of walkway after walkway, a bumch of escalators and elevators, and rows after rows of shops. And a skating rink, and a food court, and three exhibition halls, and twelve cinemas, and a major road piercing through it, and spiraling pathways for cars.

But what got my attention was the elevators. There were two on each building, and each was a bookend to the the open spaces that made the mall brighter than it should be during the day. Or, it was a novelty when I was just two. I liked the way it gave people the ability to see the whole five floors from one viewpoint. Or at least it felt amazing to me as a kid. I've always wanted to be in there just for the view, that big feeling that kids always wanted.

Of course, the family rarely went there. Christmas shopping almost always happened in Makati, with the more usual malling happening in the Las Piñas area, and when it got more accessible, in Alabang. And my fascination for that kilometer-long slab of concrete at Ortigas died down, but more because I already saw many other malls, and they're all pretty much the same. Getting an Ortigas-based job didn't even spike things up - it merely meant I'll find myself in that mall more often than I expected. A kilometer-long slab of concrete. I never get tired of walking.

After work last night, I went there to get myself a haircut. The only barber shop's at the fifth floor, but force of habit meant me taking the escalators, singing to Howling Bells, tapping my feet and the escalator railings. When that's done, out of impulse, I decided to go down the elevator.

Only thing was, it piled on another impulsive decision: buy something from Dairy Queen. The Brownie Temptation Blizzard isn't recommended, or I like the Mudpie one more.

That was on the third floor. So imagine me going two floors down, through the escalators, and buying a P75 paper cup of won't-spill-when-upside-down ice cream. Then imagine me going two floors up, through the escalators, and regretting the variation I bought. Then imagine me waiting outside the elevator, as it went slowly, from the basement to the uppermost floor.

Five minutes later, and halfway through the ice cream, I got in, went straight to the glass window, and watched the mall move up, as I went down. I just stared at the wide space, earphones plugged in, red spoon in my mouth, slowly getting sleepy, slowly getting distracted, but partly mesmerized. Upon reaching the ground floor, I came out, walked through the crowds, went out of the mall, walked to the pedestrian walkway, found myself in a tight shuttle, and slept. I thought it'd probably be the last time I'm taking the elevators. I'll probably find myself away from Ortigas soon.

They did say the best things happen to those who bite off more than they chew.

I don't exactly hate being optimistic, but I don't see myself being one. It's weird being the bringer of positive angles to those who need it the most, much like what I did to Valerie today. It's weirder considering I myself need more of these positive angles than, probably, anybody else I know, after getting nothing with the risks and failing when nothing's been done. But, believe it or not, I've been giving myself that same dose of misplaced positivity - and I don't notice it most of the time.

For the past few weeks, the three have left for lunch together more frequently. It's become a daily habit - where have the packed lunches gone? - and it's forced me to delay my lunch until, at the earliest, one in the afternoon. I just don't like the idea of bumping into them; I'm that bent on skirting a nyaha kind of event. Sometimes I wait longer than usual and end up languishing on my desk in hunger for an hour, by which time I decide to go down using the stairs rather than the elevator.

What's more common, however, is them buying fastfood - I can smell wet burgers where I am - and me using the time to think of surprisingly positive work-related stuff. Earlier, I planned on holding off an episode preview until after lunch, since I still had to gather my blogging nature to write my thoughts on the last episode. With me grounded at my desk, I decided, oh, what the heck, I'll just do it now. Within twenty minutes, I was finished, with extra time to think about where to go to lunch, since I like to have things all planned out.

Add to that the smaller things - I can go to the toilet without passing them by and sensing apathy - and I actually feel good for myself. There's preoccupation with work, and there's the small things that keep you giddy for a few hours, at the most. And then there's finishing something you've been working on for weeks. If I held off that preview today, I'd probably be stuck with half a season of CSI to trawl for murders. I'm writing this entry instead, with that sense of achievement creeping in, at least until reality strikes.

Last week's episode of CSI: NY had Katherine McPhee appear in only ten minutes or so, as a girl who - something I've relearned from work: spoiler alert! - thought the law failed her and proceeded to kill her stalker. I was particularly struck, I'll admit, but more because the people who take the law in their hands are portrayed as vigilantes, not necessarily the good guys, or those who need help the most.

"Marshall Baxter was the victim and Dana Melton was the suspect," I wrote. "But that’s the murder case: on another perspective, Marshall was the suspect and Dana, the victim."

I say I've moved on from the subtle antics of the three who sit behind me, but to be honest, I still - still! - think of them once in a while. It's the usual stuff, really. Do they talk about me when they walk to some restaurant and eat, and have fun, and laugh? Derisively, nonchalantly, whatever-ly? Sometimes I wonder whether it's my fault, and that's despite me having convinced anyone who's willing to listen that it isn't.

I was, after all, quite engrossed in my work, taking pride in whatever I write that gets good comments from the readers. I wasn't the type to reach out to them and invite them to lunch - initially it was intimidating, in the middle it was becoming an option, and at the end it was just not worth it. Lately, I've tried everything just to disassociate myself with them - I've never showed up to any coworker on important lines of communications, just to prevent myself from feeling bad when I see those official lines become an avenue for chit-chat. Perhaps I thought of work as just work - refute me by talking about my slight unaddressed fixation to the third - or perhaps I just wanted to get things done.

And, in the end, I probably looked aloof, someone who's not willing to share jokes or make an effort to relate, someone who's not capable of lightening up when needed.

True, perhaps. But nobody asked me the right questions, nobody cared when I stumbled and struggled with connecting to idle television-related talk - I write about television, but I don't watch that many shows, I'll insist - nobody cared to invite me again, nobody attempted to make me feel welcome, and when I decided to just do what I came here to do in the first place, they decided to say I'm the crazy guy, and insult me with every opportunity. Or I'm just paranoid. Or it's the lack of actual person-to-person conversation that gets to me.

Right now, I couldn't care less. It's hard imagining myself ever integrating to the workplace - and I've been here for forty-two weeks! - and it's harder imagining myself getting it right, for once. While I stumble with relationships and continue to think I'm a better writer than any of them, there's this blame game that I resort to, just to feel safe. With every gamble, I realize it's more complicated than I've always thought - in the words of Jim Brass, "one lie wrapped in another" - and it becomes more and more useless.

Things remain unresolved. I, for one, am still fixated, but who gives a damn if she hates me for that?

I'm a touchy-feely person. Everybody knows that. Never mind if people find it annoying, or invasive, or half-homosexual. Never mind if it feels desperate bordering on loneliness; besides, Scott always wanted a hug when he was called safe until last week. If that's the best way for me to feel that a certain connection's being made, then so be it. Don't ask.

It hasn't been bad lately, really, nine months of relying on words to feel the few hints of appreciation the world has left. I can't complain, or better yet, I shouldn't complain. It's something I should've seen coming, from the moment we let go of everything just to move forward. We made it through, we coped, but some have become more successful than others, and some still struggle.

My story has, of course, been elaborated virtually everywhere, and people probably find it annoying.

It's been weird over the past couple of months. Alongside that other storyline - oh, why do you bother mentioning it here? - I've been feeling pretty empty. I have conversation, good conversation, better than expected, more substantial than usual, although it's been bordering on the usual, and quite annoyingly so. But I've started losing faith in words. Lately they have failed to capture everything I've wanted to express - easily susceptible to misinterpretation, or getting lost in translation. Or, perhaps, it's human nature kicking in, and my touchy-feely tendencies coming out.

Warmth. There. I've been looking for warmth.

I think I've been, subconsciously, trying to compensate for it. There's this fairly awkward tweet I posted last night, after another intemittent chat with Piyar. There was this daze, and then your fingers start trembling subtly, but you know there's nothing to worry about. I've probably gone reminiscent, playing up Mooie a handful of times, constantly wondering where the days have gone, looking for appreciation in the worst of places, becoming more cynical, irritable, losing trust in everything I had faith in...

I sent Monica a very random text message earlier. I just said I missed her. She said the same. I said I wanted a hug. She gave me one. I gave her one, too. But we all know it isn't enough, and it isn't just because of who I am.

I love my friends, and I will do almost, perhaps, practically anything to help them.

You can blame that on the desperation, the feeling that for the past years or so, I never really had anybody to lean on. The family's always there, or so society dictates, but there are just some things that you cannot discuss with them, especially in a world where you can't trust anyone. You just need someone else that can see things for you.

Maybe there's that, then, and maybe there's exasperation over why people treat you differently. There are groups, and there are those who go in between them, or in a more negative mindset, those who are left behind. I never really had groups; somehow I never related entirely with a certain experience, and although I got by most of the time, I still felt something was missing. Either it's just society dictating my tastes again, or I felt I deserved more.

I did find them, and they were the people I overlooked, to the people that were there for the longest time, to the people who I took a liking too and decided to just let up with my uncontrolled attachments. Maybe that was the problem - attachments got people scared, attachments drove them away. For others, though, my touchy tendencies were just right, and whatever insight they supposedly gained from me, I appreciate. And we hold on to each other in a different way, like what we were always supposed to do.

That should also explain why I despair over the smallest mistakes, when it feels like arguments caused by either impulse or something more compelling would break everything apart. I wouldn't talk, and I wouldn't apologize, for I'd let my pride get in the way, but - and this is probably the worst justification ever - I'll still hope for the best, insist my point, and worry about what was lost. We'll probably wait six months before everything is forgotten, and things would've been broken up anyway, but I can't help but pander to something more superficial.

You know I still claim that I'd do anything to keep the friendship alive, cynicism-tinged intentions or otherwise. And, along with that, I claim that if you make a crucial mistake and refuse to keep tabs on it, I can easily pretend that our friendship never existed.

As ironic as this sounds, considering how hard I find moving on, I can easily pretend. Perhaps, easily forget is a better term, an easy cut-off of communications or an easier snubbing of any attempt to reconnect, and then things will be quiet, and I can move on and find new people, or return to those I've overlooked, and see that there are so many people out there than can do better, and be reminded that I deserve better, like everybody says.

In the end, you apologize and say it's you who's wrong all along, not me.

But, after all is said and done, or forgotten and undone, however clichéd that sounds, pride gets in the way. The only thing I'll ask you to do is to prove your sincerity.

If there's one law of conversation, it's to listen, and listen attentively. It's to take interest in anything whoever's with you says. It's to treat it with respect, treat it with dignity, and see where it will lead you. It's to respond in a manner that fits the subject accordingly.

Whatever happens afterward isn't exactly as relevant as you think. Should you take a friendly stance, try not to offend, look accepting and be generally nice? Should you pick out a minute detail of what you heard, break it apart, point out the mistakes and insist that it gets changed? Should you underestimate the situation, distract the party and ease things up, if only temporarily?

What's the deal with asking these questions? All that matters is that you listen attentively. They asked for your time, and you asked for theirs. They have stories and problems and observations to tell, and you have questions and answers and distractions to provide. You think one thing, they think another, and it doesn't matter whether nothing meets halfway. The fact that it happened means they were paying attention, defending what the believe in, willing to take the hard way, and hopefully make everything better - or, at least, make sure the time they gave you is worthwhile, however flimsy the conversation is. It may, and will, change depending on who you're talking to, but the rule remains universal. Listen, and listen attentively.

I did exactly that. What did I get wrong?