You're better off striking on your own. Don't regret severing those ties. Besides, they can do it so easily. That, or you continue to be pummeled by what you think is them being concerned, when they're actually just annoyed that you're hanging on to them. Face it. They no longer want you around, and there's nothing you can't do about it. It just happened, and you look like a relic, easily forgotten. There goes the road.

It may be regrettable to abandon everything that's been built in whatever time period it may be. However, sometimes you have no other choice but to do just that. We're the sentimental folks, and we need the security blanket, and it hurts seeing someone else curl up when you shiver. Or seeing it no longer fits you. Whatever it is you're thinking, it's always at odds with whatever they're thinking, and almost always, it's you on the losing end, being rejected for who you are, or what you think, or just plain, well, stupidity. Randomness. "You are the weakest link. Goodbye!"

After all these years, you'll just never meet halfway anymore. You might think you do, but as time passes by it becomes clearer that the bond has just disappeared. Who insisted that you can keep up anyway, with all that new-fangled technology that involves buzzes and emoticons? Sincerity can be easily thrown out of the window, whichever window this may be. It's a misunderstanding that's looking for something to wreck. You think their ideas are ridiculous. They think you're being irrational. You think they're pushing you against the wall, severely restricting you. While you want to be left alone, you don't want to be left alone. Another case of word play. Another case of being complicated.

The thing is, we all tend to forget. One slips from the mind, as others make their way in. Priorities, they call it. The next thing you know, when you try to get back, you'll be greeted by this weird sense of euphoria that makes you feel left out anyway. Surrounded by strangers, perhaps. The only thing you can do is say, "oh, hello, cloud."

But sure, you are still close friends. Then again, "close", in this case, is totally subjective. We've seen people act close to people they've just met. We've seen people talk to people hundreds of miles away, as if they were never really far away. And being "close" is just a matter of word use. Physical proximity is, almost always, a compromise that doesn't work well for everyone. Emotional proximity could mean both ways. All you need, after all, is proof that things are still the same as they are, or, at the very least, you can keep it that way.

But the bottom line is, you no longer know who you're talking to. It's a totally different thing from, say, the times when you did everything together. You had a grasp of everything, and you knew when to step the line, which is almost always never. Well, you've kept in touch, but catching up isn't going to get you back to how things were. And if you're the sentimental kind, this should prove disastrous.

Distance changes everything.

I should be writing this at the end of the day. I still have roughly six hours remaining, after all. And seven profiles, which isn't much by the standards I've learned to embrace over the past eleven months - don't take twenty minutes to finish something, unless it's big.

But I've learned to break those conventions.

And, right now, I feel nothing. Numb? Perhaps. At least I have this freedom to jump while seated on my chair, in an attempt to shake the body that's remained in a sedentary position for so long. I barely stand up for the toilet, and I barely care. I do feel sleepy. I guess when everything around you slows down you realize that you're suffering from burnout, or from a lack of space to maneuver on.

I think I should be asking questions like "what did I do to deserve this?" or "what's with me that's not with them?" but I'm, perhaps, too sleepy to think of those questions. Instead, I'm thinking of where to eat lunch.

It's funny, actually, that I never sought to crash the course until when I had no other option left, when things just got so sucky. That you'll never fit in, and you'll never be treated equally, and you'll always get the blame for something you didn't do. That you're thinking about it again. But it's good material, so I'll go defy what Valerie and Lizette told me in separate instances.

It sucks being in the bottom rung of the ladder, forever out of the loop. And it's a good thing, too.

I felt invincible. For once, I thought, I was able to do something I never really did before. I don't know. Yes, she's very nice, and yes, she's very, very nice, and it felt she'll never really mind if I told her I had a crush on her, which I did. It was a weird moment, but I didn't feel it until later. It just went out of my mouth. What happened next, I actually don't remembe,r but we just hugged, and I think I stole a kiss in the cheek. Okay. Right there I felt ridiculous.

Although, I figured, it wouldn't go anywhere. I perfectly knew that someone was courting her, or it was very close to an agreement, but that revelation served to, well, get us closer, and perhaps diffuse whatever unaddressed whatever I had for her. So I became a jolly guy, but a little too shallow, especially since she did everything and then some, or so it felt. I could've felt inadequate, but frankly, I probably never noticed that I felt like that, that I can't keep up with her, that I want to keep up with her, until I had to forget. And that's when it hurt.

For some reason, I managed to keep up with her. She was perky, perhaps too perky, but some did say I had this thing for very outgoing people. I had to be perky, too, and that's something that I can easily pull off, with my battery-powered madness. She was very witty, too, and I thought, I have to keep up with her. So, I thought, I'd play with wordplay. Never mind if she didn't see it; I just wanted to feel that I am witty too, and that means I can keep up considerably well. So what if we never talked that much?

Again, I knew it wouldn't go anywhere, but I guess all I wanted was the company, and while I was surprised that she did provide it, or I was just in a lucky place, well, it was awkward and fun and, I don't know, pretty cuddly. I talk fast, and I have aspirations of being a radio DJ, but I stutter when you put the two together. She is witty, and she thinks fast, and while I think I'm both, I can't keep up with the output. I wanted to blame the language barrier, but, sure, let's just play with it.

There was this in-between and I didn't know things because I didn't know her all of a sudden. All I know is, there's someone.

Or was there? I met her again and everything was different. She's quiet, with that same look in her eyes able to express giddiness and sternness at the same time. I guess you lose track when you fall in love, especially when you know there is a chance, because for some reason the world turned and all that's left was me, and her. She started talking deep stuff, and I thought, I can do deep stuff too; it must come easy, with my metaphors that nobody understands. I've learned a lot in those two years. I can keep up, perhaps bluff, and there were those awkward moments, but somehow you're hoping, or, otherwise, you were already working on it.

But she didn't believe in romance, anymore, perhaps, which is ironic, since she spoke of romance before, and it felt all true. And she started to turn her back on me, and all I saw was someone who's been hardened by time and has thus turned cold with whoever's offering her warmth. (It was raining, literally.) Quickly, I stopped believing in romance, too, and I turned my back on her, more cynical than I ever was. But you know what they all try to conceal, right?

Nah. She's so broken, I presume, and I was, too.

Yes, it's the same Niña who claimed that guys are "conceited [and] juvenile," and the same Niña who thinks Edward Cullen is "raising standards for future boyfriends," if she ever ends up with one.

And yes, it's the same Niko who has grown cynical over the entire thing.

So what are we doing, discussing this again?

I'm just cynical about love. I believe in it, but not in everything else attached to it. I don't know about her, but I have every reason to believe that she does, too; she just doesn't like the package it's presented in. Put the two together, and you have an online conversation that someone's bound to enjoy - at least one person, which happens to be me, because I get to assert stuff and challenge stuff, and the other way around.

We were actually talking about yesterday's blog entry. And then, in a fit of randomness, I started talking about her getting kidnapped and, for some reason, being left in the mouth of the Mayon volcano. And she started talking about some guy from those Korean dramas that she watches finding her plea on Twitter - for some reason, she'll have her phone in hand - looking for her across the Philippines, and rescuing her.

I ruin it by suggesting it's all a Greenwich ad, which is probably my point. She admits that these things happen only on screen. And then the clincher.

"Boys should try watching those," she said. "Para alam nila anong gagawin!"

"We know better," I countered. "We know what those films show don't work. And girls think they do because the guys are just so perfect. But we are not those guys!"

"Pero kaya n'yo namang gawin! And yet, hindi n'yo ginagawa."

"We can do those things, but it won't be as easy as the movies. Mahihirapan kami, papahirapan kami, at hindi kami forever susubok. Unlike them. May predisposition kapag pelikula. Dapat ganito. May expectation kasi sa pelikula. And what makes you say na if we do exactly what they do in the movies, you'll say yes?"

"Kasi we'll feel loved."

"At hanggang dun lang."

"And we'll fall in love?"

"Paano? Automatic na pala yun, ganun?"

"I dunno. Pero parang... I mean, nakikita mo sa movies. And if mangyari sa'yo yun?"

"So ma-i-in-love ka, kasi yung ginagawa namin, pareho nung napanood mo? I'm sorry, but it's shallow. Guys want to feel that what they're doing is worth it. Mas sensitive pa ata kami sa inyo, eh. Alam namin kung lokohan lang. Kung kumapit kami, kasi walang choice."

"Iba ka sa ibang guys, eh! Hindi naman lahat ganun mag-isip."

So, suddenly, I don't have the right props to talk about love, because I don't watch those movies? Because I never tried to address my feelings towards someone? Because I never had such feelings in the first place? At the moment, the whole thing turned another corner. I think she definitely got it wrong. Or, it's my ego thinking guys think basically the same even if we all do things differently.

But I conceded. "Fine, I'll give you that," I said. "Paano mag-isip ang ibang guys?"

"Other guys think na they could just get rid of girls kapag gusto nila," Niña said. "Tapos parang they are everything. And sometimes they take advantage. Tapos tingin nila, may papalit naman sa kanya kung mawala man siya. And hindi sila considerate!"

"And yet you think guys who act like the movies can cut it for you."

"Yes. Because perfect sila."

"So you expect us to become perfect?"

"No. You just have to learn from them."

"But that's learning to be perfect, which is impossible."

"Pero behind the perfection are flaws. And yet they try very hard. And that makes them perfect."

"So hindi sila perfect."

"Well, fine. Almost siguro."

"So bakit dapat naming gayahin ang nasa pelikula? It's all a set-up. For some reason alam mong alam nila kung anong meron. Sa totoong buhay? Wala kaming alam. Wala kayong alam."

"Wala din naman silang alam, ah."

"Pero alam mo. So napagtutugma mo yung ginagawa ng guy sa nararamdaman ng girl. You can't do that here. Hulaan."

"Pero it can happen rin naman."

"In your head. Only in your head."

"Hindi naman siguro. I mean, siguro may magic pa rin."

"Why want the magic to happen when you very well know that it doesn't happen?"

"It'll happen. Bakit may nagpapakasal? And why did Juday say na yung magic sa movies, it happens in real life?"

At that point, I think the conversation went ridiculously downhill. And yet we still talked. I argued that she got the boundary between movie magic and real life blurred, and she contended that Judy Ann and Ryan still got married despite being totally different from each other. I guess it's a tie. I'm looking for something grounded in reality. She's looking for that spark that tells her that it's it. And we're all looking for the same thing. At this rate, we'll never find it.

I don't know why, but I always wanted to do a goodbye speech. A goodbye to anything, as long as there's a goodbye speech, and simply because it sounds very important. Imagine the feeling, of you being able to address all of the people you've spent the last considerably marked time period with, recognizing their presence and their contributions, thanking them (or otherwise), making them feel some hint of regret that you'll no longer be with them - which is, you should admit, an effective way to make you look important, significant, perhaps indispensable.

Or maybe you really just want to thank people. But that happens if you've grown fond of some of them, else the goodbye speech becomes something that you do because you just love yourself more than anything else, and would do anything to portray, or fix, your reputation at this and that.

Yeah, I get that. I guess I'm still grappling with that pervasive feeling of being unappreciated, from the bottom of the ladder to the last person on the line, forgotten as everybody praises the purported next big thing. That would make this very, well, self-centered, and even if I know that will help me be euphoric, at least, for the next few hours, it's not something I really want. It's one of those ironies. You want the attention but you don't like the idea of unwarranted attention.

So, there's the other reason, which only makes sense if you've actually endeared yourself to your potential audience, which, in my case, is the back row with earmuffs and Conan O'Brien's anti-spoiler technology. The problem, thus, with a lack of appreciation.

And then there's the other problem: goodbyes are almost always never planned. Some are anticipated, so there's reason to suit up, which explains why most employees cannot leave their desks for thirty days after they've filed their resignation. There's those surprises that happen because someone did something wrong. And then there's death, in which case you can never really deliver a goodbye speech unless you've left behind your will, and even then, you don't have any control of what happens next. You still die as that voyeur who kept tabs on your previous relationships, even if you're not capable enough to carry them out. Or something like that.

For us at the receiving end, there's that familiar mix. I'm sure they'll celebrate if I do, and they'll cry if one of them does. Same goes with me. It depends on what the departing one has done - either you've been very supportive, or you've been a boon to their existence, always looking with those dismissive glasses, and everything else that comes in between. So, you either feel empowered again, or you spin around in a daze, feeling the world has come to an end, and everything else.

(Like that one over there. Yes, you.)

Today was a weird day. Not the least, a very disengaging day, not after everything that happened in the first two hours, not after the realization that you're all but safe where you are, that everything's gone save for everything you wanted gone, and that you'll have to start again. And to think I started everything without any idea of what to expect, only to end up feeling, well, I don't know. Rattled? Surrounded? Defeated? Hopeless? Something, definitely, and not what you expected, if you consider what you said you'll do before. Things just do change, and sometimes you're nice enough to pitch in a word before you finally let go of it. Or, like the rest, just continue and not care.

Send my regards, then, to the boy from film school who didn't say a word. I thought I'd be the one to go first. But you, well, you probably don't know what you did. And I didn't expect it either. Not the least because of what everybody else said. Good luck, I suppose. And, most definitely, goodbye.

I'll go rattle myself back to complacency.

I guess it finally happened to me: I am too busy to update this blog.

Actually, no. I still end up with a free hour or so at work, and that's the usual sixty idle minutes that sees me seated in front of this monitor, browsing the usual geeky stuff, with an email written out but not sent somewhere in the taskbar. Well, today was an exception, because I was tasked to upload one pretty big project that's due out within the Seattle day. I ended ten minutes before six, mostly because technology was failing me. Or time zones are.

And actually, I still end up thinking of stuff to write about. The concession is, it doesn't happen as often as before. Being seated where I am means you're basically disconnected from everything, and that mean you have nothing much to observe, and nothing much to write about. The online conversations can only get you so far. There's also me being engrossed with work lately - which is, ironically, a good thing - especially since some of my bigger plans came to swing as the television season wrapped up over the past two weeks. I've officially called myself a CSI geek.

Or there's Twitter, and all my thoughts going there.

The past couple of years, I've pegged May as the month where all of my best blog entries end up going. I guess I'm more receptive (and more idle) during those months, and it makes for a refreshing change from all those romance-related thought bubbles. I still have those, actually, but for some reason it just doesn't explode like before. However annoying it is for me to end up thinking about what's four feet away while walking towards the shuttle terminal - almost always in the same spot - it, well, just doesn't happen. I still text Kat for distraction once in a while. I don't call it moving on, either.

I've strayed from my topic. Goodness.

The thing is, the entire scenario has changed. I still want to update this blog as often as I can, but I guess it doesn't come to me anymore. Or, whatever's there doesn't elicit any reaction, and that's before I told myself to stop tackling it. One of you can breathe easy now, even if the damage cannot be undone.

The most enlightening line of the day - otherwise spent in frustration, or dancing to Passion Pit while everybody's left - came from Les, who was somehow happy that the weekend's come. Or maybe not. Work's all we ever do, she contended, and I agreed. And then she threw me with those words.

"It's so sad to think that for the rest of our lives, it revolves around one thing alone. Work!"

Well, that, and growing up, and getting married, and being responsible. But all of that's a long shot, if you think of it, because there's a part of us that wants to stay like this, and a part of us that wants to move on. And I realize I strayed from my subject yet again. Then again, was there ever a subject? Any other subject?

Yes, that claim does seem a little outrageous, but you too can be posh in just thirty days. And yes, I can help you attain just that. I'd like to think I have the right credentials to help you elevate in status and become as posh as the people around you. I spend my idle time walking around in malls and observing people that seem to have it all. And then there's my fatal insecurity about myself, which only motivates me to figure out these methods. And, like every other outrageous claim, I am sharing my tips to you.

My first tip is quite simple, really. You've been to the stands, checking out all those magazines just to learn more about those products that could make you look beautiful, or those moves that could make you look intelligent? Ditch them. All of them. They tell you about what to do, all right, but first of all, they're extremely commercialized - often, the best products are the ones you can't even buy, because they presume you can. Or, they're hard to find and hard to understand, which literally makes your efforts harder than the result. It'll only make you more miserable - and I've yet to mention the sexy ladies and gentlemen that adorn those magazines. It simply tells you that, even if you buy that aftershave and use it the right way, you'll never get close to Megan Fox in her underwear.

If you observe the posh people closely, they're who they are not because of what they think, or say, or know, nor because of who they are with. In fact, it's all because of something more superficial: their outward appearances. Whatever or whoever they know, they picked up in pursuit of that look. You don't really have to read up on things and be passionate about them: you just have to follow the trail and you can bluff your way to being posh. Everything else should fall into place.

So, what are they wearing? It's hard to categorize, really, but there are a few characteristics. They're in touch with the prevailing urban sensitivities of the time. They're in cool colors - never the screaming ones, unless the occasion calls for it. They're simple in its complications - a coherence in disparity, or perhaps they're sparse. Most importantly, they fit the person literally. Nothing too big, nothing too baggy, and nothing that doesn't show their physical flaws. In other words, they're way better than what you're wearing, no matter what.

So, take a look at your wardrobe. If there's an outfit that screams personality, ditch it. Being posh means being slightly monotonous - just slightly, for it's an inconsistent balancing act. There's no one template for everybody. If I may warn you, though, it'll be a long period of trying and tweaking, since you'll always feel that you're worse than whoever you're pegging yourself at.

If you can, you can also try tanning yourself. Make sure you get tan lines in the crucial parts - on both your shoulders. You don't need to go to the beach and endure self-disappointment; there's always the roof of your house, or your yard, or constant cooking in the kitchen. Just make sure that the look is consistent with being in the beach, or else it'd look awkward, asymmetrical and the opposite of posh. You can also take a look at your face, and try everything you can to smoothen all the blemishes. Posh people don't use make-up, and yet they look radiant and clean; you can either go to your friendly dermatologist, or scrub your face until it burns every single time you get the chance. Remember, this is optional: some terribly pimply people are considered posh.

Maybe you're asking: is being posh really just a physical thing? For the most part, yes. Humans are naturally drawn to good looks, and those good looks are defined by the most dominant of them, which happen to be posh. But it's a two-prong approach. As you try to get it right, you pick up the other characteristics, desirable or otherwise, and unconsciously apply it to your life. You take on new interests. You learn to speak better English. You start doing different gestures. You'll think of nudity as art, of football as a celebration, and of sex as a necessary indulgence. Soon enough you'll learn to, at the very least, bluff your life away - being posh doesn't mean being intelligent or substantial anyway, because all you need to talk about are yourselves, or your companions' problems.

It should be pretty easy when all you want is to gain someone's attention and hold it for a mutually-beneficial amount of time. But you'll have to consider the disadvantages, though. You'll always look at yourself under the shadow of the people you aspire to be with. Or, you've lost so much of yourself you can't start interacting when you have to. Trust me, I've tried all of these and I'm still trying to strike that balance, even if it's been waaay longer than thirty days. Being us sucks, doesn't it?

It's never strange for me to receive a lot of text messages whenever it's raining hard outside. It'd be a frenzy. Someone would ask me a question, and I'd answer back, saying that I don't know the answer. Someone else would ask me the same question, and I'd give the same answer. It'd go that way for hours, a literal frenzy of questions and answers, and the only thing that happens is a larger profit for the mobile phone networks. At the same time, I'd be tuned in to the news, probably by force or by my own choosing, a little worried for myself.

And then I'd get a text message from someone in the Student Council, basically answering the questions I can't answer: there are no classes.

I don't know why exactly people ask me that question. And, all the time. I know people know I watch the news all the time. I know people call me the "block Inquirer" - well, at least Huey did - because I always updated this blog every day with whatever's happening in my little excuse for a microcosm of society. And I know I posted all those reminder bulletins during our frosh year, about links to homework and deadlines for stuff. I must be trustworthy. Perhaps I still am - I still got those questions during my first months at work, and I could only tell them that I've graduated already.

I knew this summer wasn't exactly going the way most beach bodies hoped it would go. I found myself using the umbrella at the weirdest of dates, and my new white rubber shoes have been relegated to its box. I never had an idea of how the weather is during work, though. There's headphone-induced complete isolation, made worse by my preference for foreign radio stations like this one right now. And then there's the lack of access to windows - I used to sit in front of one, and quickly determine whether it's raining badly or not. Now I've been isolated by office politics, I can't make myself turn around just to look at the window. Or, it's inconvenient.

It's funny, then, when I was browsing through Twitter and seeing all those tweets from people who are amazed at the rain. I know there's a typhoon, or two at one point, and I know the latest one is hovering somewhere on the South China Sea. But that's all I knew.

"It's raining real hard," James tweeted. I ended up looking outside, and I realized that it is raining badly - it's just five in the afternoon, but it looked like I was working overtime, or the way things usually go at work, wasting company resourced on watching stuff. And then he tweeted again: "and it's raining even harder."

And I wondered about the possibility of me, the guy who used to be updated about all these things, not knowing what exactly is happening around me. Have I been too engrossed in my work? (After all, yesterday was Allison's elimination.) Have I lost my touch? Have I just lost it? I ended up enduring two hours of traffic, expected when cars slow down because of slippery roads - stuff I learned when I went to driving school - and got home just in time to see her get eliminated again. It still broke my heart. But I digress.

Today, I woke up to my mother watching the morning news shows. Apparently the typhoon entered Luzon last night, and went through northern Luzon just as I went home. So that's why Rey was stuck in Baguio. It was that bad. And as I watched the news, I was literally staring at awe, at the fact that the clouds that formed the storm was now in the Philippine Sea. It crossed the road, and I had no idea it did.

Nine in the morning. I was listening again to Chris and Nicole, wondering if the rain really had something to do with my 45-minute "cruise" along the SLEX. They were talking about private investigators, cousin rivalry and, well, the stuff they usually talk about. So, okay, I made it through the traffic - or the lack of it - and got off the shuttle thirty minutes before. It wasn't raining anymore, but the skies still felt like four hours ago was frozen. And I started to feel very, very anxious, which is a bad thing, because I shouldn't, or at least I told myself I shouldn't. And I wasn't thinking of anything else. Work, in this case, is the best form of distraction.

Ten in the morning. I'm liking what I'm hearing. Honestly, though, I listen to stuff that would drown out whatever's happening around me, not that it matters. What matters right now are the things I'm ought to do - technology has, again, gotten in the way, and the stuff I was supposed to do are, well, impossible to do at this point. I hate this feeling, of doing nothing at all, when in fact you're doing something... well, except for this one.

Eleven in the morning. "There's euphoria, and then there's bliss," I told Rae. She thinks I'm blissful, but I think I never was. Depressed? Perhaps, but that swings, so I can't tell much, really.  But at least I'm doing something today. It actually feels good when things fall into place. In between talking to Ariane about Miakka's appearance on Unang Hirit, and Jayvee about whoever's dying on CSI: NY, well, this is getting a little comfortable. Weird Rae asked me about my YM profile photo - still the one with Piyar. Again, she's not my girlfriend!

Twelve noon. I remember what Kat told me about people who aren't "terribly important". I shouldn't worry about it, she says. Well, fine, I won't. Just funny that I wasn't implying that at all - maybe my wording implied that, in which case I'm still grappling with the issues of being lost in translation. On the other hand, I'm doing something that the rest aren't doing again, or at least as far as I am concerned. After all, I am out of the loop in everything, and in this case the possibilities at hand - something will happen, something else will happen, or nothing will happen - play with that fact of life. But oh, the virus scanner's activated itself. And the sun outside is actually shining. Sorts.

Fifteen past twelve in the afternoon. Bingo. Something else did happen.

One in the afternoon. I was texting Kat again. In fact, I was texting Kat since last night. I needed someone to tell me things, to quell whatever needed to be quelled, because surely they won't be even if I think they have. And, actually, they haven't been - I'm still overthinking everything, literally everything. Whatever they were, I forgot - I've thought them all out of my head in the past forty-five minutes. I guess I have to overthink to get rid of them, even if I can easily generate them again. But I ramble, like I always do. I'm expecting another spanking from Valerie when she sees this... so. Plans. Lunch. Productivity. I don't know. I'll try thinking again.

Two in the afternoon. I finished another article, had lunch, bought another pack of Twix, went to the ATM (damn salary delays), chewed some gum, and typed these words out. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go deal with the Holocaust.

Three in the afternoon. I'm eating my Twix, watching CSI despite the buffers - essentially, an unofficial break before I get to work on my final tasks. It doesn't usually happen, though - I usually end earlier than three in the afternoon, which is admittedly worse since I feel idle for a longer time, while I hear clattering keyboards around me. Either that, or I'm too busy doing things because they got piled up or, in some cases, something comes up really late that it even keeps the folks at Seattle awake at midnight. Right now? Nothing much, really. Kat distracted me with talk of New Moon and her hopes for curly hair. I managed to give some beauty advice. And then I felt backstabbed, literally, literally, literally. But I'm overthinking again.

Four in the afternoon. Everybody around me's leaving. I'm actually one of the last to leave, since my shift ends in a couple of hours. The people in front of me have left by this time; the people behind me won't leave until an hour later. I've finished half of my remaining slideshows - they only take under ten minutes, and that includes thinking of captions that don't rely entirely on press releases - and have only two to go. And then the tedious uploading, unless technology gets in the way. At least I don't bluff my way to convince people of my know-how, although sometimes that doesn't work. For others, it doesn't at all.

Five in the afternoon. I just finished everything, and as the office slowly rids itself of familiar faces, I prepare my daily email to Seattle. Today was supposed to be an ordinary day, but obviously it isn't. And I can't make up any other reasons for this. Just that, perhaps, five months ago I got a fairly discreet shoutout, and five months later I refuse to return the favor. Sure, I may be ugly and have the attitude to match, but I figured bitches don't deserve my birthday greetings.

I won't be surprised if I lose you in the next paragraphs because of another exhibition of my useless knowledge over some subject. That partly means you, Ning.

In the mid-1960s, the BBC's radio stations were seen at stodgy, outdated and uncool. The youth of the time, on the other hand, were tuning in to the pirate radio stations, with transmitters hoisted from boats in the middle of the sea broadcasting pop music every hour of the day. Parliament eventually passed a law banning these boats from transmitting, and the BBC was tasked to overhaul their radio networks. After months of planning, a new pop station was born: Radio 1.

The station was set up to essentially fill the gap the closure of the pirates made. Part of the effort was the hiring of some of the outlawed stations' DJs themselves. One of them was John Peel, who broadcast from Radio London in the early part of the 60s after short stints in the United States. He, and his show The Perfumed Garden, became one of the proponents of the underground scene of the time, and listeners were sending him letters - and poems, and records - by the bucketloads. His stint on Radio 1 was pretty much the same, although there are the institutional regulations that meant some of the things he did before had to be checked now.

Regardless, he stayed with the station for 37 years, doing multiple evening shows throughout the decades. Known for his eclectic, if not eccentric, tastes in music, he introduced generations of young British ears to punk rock, hip-hop, dance and essentially anything that attracts his attention. Management might not have always agreed with what he's done, but his impact is undeniable. Many bands attribute their success to Peel's involvement, through his renowned Peel Sessions, or through mere airplay, regardless of whether he's played it at the wrong speed or not.

Peel died of a sudden heart attack in 2004, topping headlines across the country, and all of a sudden his impact and influence dawned upon a country, and perhaps the whole world. You can say that the United Kingdom being a hotbed for credible musical talent was due to his efforts. The kids wouldn't have been turned on to, say, Led Zeppelin, or Joy Division, or the Smiths, or the White Stripes. Nic Harcourt wouldn't have turned film executives and music supervisors on to Jem and Norah Jones. Steve Lamacq wouldn't have done that notorious interview with the since-and-still-missing Richey James Edwards. If not for him, I probably wouldn't be listening to Tom Robinson's podcasts on Friday nights, and to more obscure indie stations at work. Or be friends with Antonette.

If John Peel can change the world, why can't we?

"Well, you're popular now," Redg suddenly said a couple of months back. "You've even set a benchmark [for] political analysis in school." He was, of course, referring to Shale Campaigns, that notoriously unofficial coverage of the Student Council elections in DLSU that I returned to despite being busy at work. I was, of course, a little confused about how big my impact is on the ecosystem, partly because I never really saw it for myself - after all, I was just a dissident unconsciously taking on the secretive political parties in school.

I was chatting with Valerie at the same time, and I told her of Redg's remarks. "Sosyal," she said. "Good for you, making a difference in an institution. I have yet to do that." And then we returned to the topic of the hour - well, who else?

That idea's been drilled to our heads since we were kids, and perhaps more so for today's crop of younger ones. "Go make a difference," your school principal might've said on your graduation day. "Go change the world." And we come in with an idea of what to do, or at the very least, what we want to be. A vision, perhaps. As impossible as it may seem, we see ourselves doing something that will touch other people's lives in one way or another - a renowned writer, an inspiring educator, an acclaimed engineer, the president of the Philippines.

Maybe it's too early to tell, but the thing is, John Peel can change the world and we can't. They won't let us.

"It always ends up about me and the fucking wrong decisions I've fucking made," I told Valerie today. Yes, it was another dump rant, of sorts, at least. "Personally, professionally, personally... and the catch is, I have too good a memory. I can think back to as far as eight, nine, ten years ago. And attribute those to this fucking mistake."

My complacency in elementary school. My carefree, everything-will-be-fine ways. My being bullied in high school. My impulse to slap a girl I was arguing with, which got me kicked out. My feeling surrounded, alone, surrounded, alone, unappreciated. My inability to stand up for what I believe in, to be brave for once and pursue what I want. My bloated belief in myself. My tendency to make a fuss out of (almost) every girl I fancy, without doing anything about it. My bitterness, my cynicism, my need for absolute certainty, for absolute appreciation, for probably a hint of attention...

One less person to deal with, I guess.

Then again, everybody who's made it big and did their thing - the same people who seemingly did everything right - also went through troubles. John Peel, for instance, was raped by an older student, divorced his first wife, and failed in his attempts to establish a record label, apart from the criticism he got from more conservative sectors. Yet, a stage on Glastonbury was named after him. And a train. And his spirit is often invoked when the direction of another BBC station is being discussed.

And while I complain about the mistakes I've done, and whether I've banished myself to a deep hole, perhaps, it is too early to tell. Or too late. As always, I don't know.