The least we could do, especially when there's nothing left to do, is to observe, and observe extra carefully. Oddly it happens even if we have something to do. Or maybe it's because things have become a bit more predictable lately.

Predictable, meaning it falls on a certain template. Last week I did the same set of things (but only because nothing's really happening to my set of shows) and, most of the time, did things at exactly the same time for five straight days. The differences melt into obscurity, pretty much. The weather, half-irritatingly, has become evidently more schizophrenic. It'd be bright and sunny - too bright and sunny - when I head out for lunch an hour past noon. I'd return and the skies would start to get darker, and for my remaining hours inside the office - spent doing almost nothing, of course - the skies would grow darker, and darker, until it'd start to rain, and rain really hard.

Road visibility would be close to zero until halfway through the trip home. In the end, my umbrella is useless as I take that one last walk to our gate, the surroundings pretty dry.

For five days, it's gone that way. And the past weekend, too, when I was out and about doing errands or tailing along to wherever; it'd rain very strongly in the middle of Manila, and it'd be very dry when we get home. Somewhat annoying, because while rain is generally not a good thing, being prepared for something that won't happen is more so.

Today, it's been sunny, for the most part. Obviously, because I'm at home, at the strength of another holiday - the third this month - that never really works well for someone who's eternally bored, or much more conflicted. If I was at work, I'd probably see the same things materialize. Searing sun and unforgiving rain flirting with each other unsuccessfully.

And then Valerie says it's raining where she is.

"Rainy?" I said. "It's perfectly sunny a few kilometers south!"

"Then I looked out the window and saw the blue sky through the clouds," she answered back. "It's raining, all right."

I looked out my own window, and the skies got darker. It was barely lunchtime.

"I think I'm right behind you. I think."

I could've approached her, poked her shoulder and saw her surprised face. "Uy, Henrik!" she would've said - or maybe Niko, I'm oddly not sure. And I knew I saw her come out of the car and enter the mall right before I did. I swore the figure was familiar, and the fashion sense, too. And it was funny because we were just talking on Facebook a few hours ago.

I think that's why I didn't just approach her and poke her shoulder and anticipated her surprised face. For some reason, I thought that was predictable, and so I instead sent her that text message, half-hoping that she'd turn, but half-anxious that it wasn't her that I saw enter the mall, partly because I didn't think I'd find her in that particular mall, on that particular day. Or I didn't really know. But my gut feel was right anyway, and thirty seconds later she picked up the phone, saw my text message, and turned around.

No, it shouldn't sound romantic. I was greeting her nervously. For some reason, it felt so surreal.

Drea being Drea meant I didn't expect to bump into her, much more talk to her in a slightly expanded sense. But last week, she sent me a text message - more of a group message, actually, but enough to start a little conversation. She was selling tickets to the last big Sugarfree concert, and it was something that shouldn't have surprised me because, since she is a (half-)business student, you'd expect her to sell stuff. But she was, along with Mae, one of those people who waited anxiously at the amphitheater for the band to come out and play. We were fans, she more of, me a little bit, although I never really was into getting into something that much.

"Yes, Niko, I'm friends with the band now. Coolness. Dati hanggang sulyap lang sa amphi."

Obviously I did two things. I promised I'd see if I'd be able to come - I am, still, a fan of the band - and I never found the time. The concert was, I think, just five days away from those text messages, and being the guy who lives far away and gets too engrossed at work, there just wasn't really any choice but to drop it.

But I was amused anyway. Drea wasn't really the giddy type - that was Mae, and her slightest musings over Kaka. Now I thought of it, I don't know why I was amused. Amazed, perhaps, is the right word.

She ended up going with a bunch of friends. "I was with Arlene, Mae, Sars, EJ, June, Marielle, Butch, Y2K plus two friends," she told me on Facebook. But of course, it'd be them.

"Inggitin ba ako?" I quipped.

"Wait till you see the pics," she quipped back.

There she was, with that unexplainable mix of why-did-you-do-that? and oh-hello-hi-how-are-you? on her face. I think she waved nervously, too. We had nothing to talk about, but I was surprised she had her friends go ahead to chat a bit with me. Of course, it was the Sugarfree concert. And the new album, which I haven't heard of until I saw it on the shelves during one of my forcibly-extended lunch breaks. I realized they've got English song titles again, although I don't know if they're singing it in English, too. (Random factoid: Their only songs in English appear on their debut, Sa Wakas. They've gone all-Filipino since, even if the songs are titled in English. Say, Limbo, off Dramachine.)

Of course, she'd tell me to buy the album. Of course, I can afford to save up for it now, at least until my earphones went bust on me again.

I couldn't remember what we talked about. But it wasn't much, really. Just another familiar, non-hostile face, and all the things that come with it, fleeting or otherwise. And no, it really shouldn't sound romantic.

There are folds, but there aren't.

In fact, it fits quite nicely. I do it loosely. I look sloppy. The rest looks streamlined.

There's a new silver detail on the side.

It shines a bit. I stopped doing so. I thought it's a waste of time. Maybe later.

I don't know if it's a case of hearing what you want to hear even if you don't want to hear it, but I hear it.

Hallucinations? Perhaps. Not really. I never really stopped.

There was this halt. There is this halt. I feel the same way, only differently.

Is there such a thing as tender frustration? I mean, it's full of fury but there's some semblance of sentimentality attached to it. Packed yet doesn't hurt as bad. That, by the way, is a misnomer.

The considerations have changed. It's more of a thorn on the side, but something you can't get rid of.

No, I said. If I repeat that again I'll get myself in harm's way. As if something will change.

I handle expectations on a day-to-day basis. Funny, because I don't expect anything. That's the flimsiest metaphor ever, after talking through metaphors for most of the morning.

There aren't any folds, but there are.

It's only been two days into week sixty-one. You know what comes next.

I guess it's just another one of those days. Or periods. Time periods. People say you've improved and then you start sinking immediately after. Maybe people should stop noticing that I'm better. Better, not happier. Happy never happens to me anyway. Probably never will. More so when I notice that something's always off. Three empty seats rather than two, perhaps. Coughs that sound more like orgasms.

I think I forgot how it feels to be elated. The feeling that you're doing something you really like with someone you know really likes it, too. Those little impulsive adventures that get you nowhere, or get you against the way of things, but you don't really care for it, or even think about it, because you're elated. Trips to the sea without life vests. Impromptu dates at the park. Sudden trips to the cinema. Planning things out.

I was chatting with Tonet last Sunday. No, I don't blame her for my sinking. I was sinking before she even got there. We just talked about things. I was trying to articulate myself but I wasn't able to. I didn't want to talk about it. At least bother going into detail. That feeling. People screw you, you can't screw them back. You screw people, worse things happen to you.

I used to think letting go of hypocritical "friendships" would make me feel that I'm in control of my life.

I miss that feeling of elation. One toss, one good response, recognition, appreciation, whatever. Something tangible, rather than words written out. You can sense that they're all cobbled together as an afterthought. I'm tired of being an afterthought. I've always been an afterthought. I make plans, they back out, saying they forgot. Nobody forgets. Everybody pushes stuff down. They don't want you around, they can just kick you out. I do the same, I don't know. I can't. They won't.

You know the feeling of being just comfortable, or letting yourself go just a bit because you're actually having fun? Can you tell me how that feels again?

"You mean," I told myself, "Taylor Swift is five eleven?"

It is a bit surprising to find out that she actually stands an inch shy of six feet. Not that I'm being dismissive of women in general, but we've all seen her photos, and we've all heard her songs, and you get the idea that she's this cute little thing who can hit the guitar and write mean songs at a really young age. Or perhaps there's that, the fact that she is really young. A year younger than me, I think, and yet she's waaay out there, and the thought of that makes someone desk-bound like me cringe. I'm twenty, and I can't be bothered to learn the guitar.

I was flicking through the back issue of Q - a hundred bucks for something half a year old ain't bad, really - and there I was, surrounded again by all of those ideas, or at least all of those artists I peg for listening but forget to. There weren't that many references to things that you could be (and they always find their way in anything I buy), but it being a glossy British music magazine, it'll strike you soon, not the least the Lily Allen cover. You think her songs are accessible, and yet there she was, almost being photographed with tigers, because obviously they wouldn't let the animals near anyone. Classy cover, but still, up there. You know what I mean.

My feelings of inferiority has yet to creep in, but I guess everyone's felt that other people are far superior than you even if you should, in theory, share the same things. I'm not alone on this, right? I thought so. I mean, I was flicking through books at Fully Booked yesterday - before I bought that Lily Allen cover - and there was a woman beside me, maybe around five years older, who smelled like bad cigarettes. But it seemed she's the type who could get away with it by looking pretty hip, with the off-shoulder top (and her bra strap peeking), the oversized handbag and the short shorts. Me, I was browsing the same shelf and I felt like a walking sweaty armpit.

Maybe it's the matter of me being eternally stuck in the middle. It sucks being in the middle. It seems that you can't afford to drop a batch, but you can't move up either. Nothing really fits you. Inside the bookstore I was surrounded by vinyl records, Sean Hannity's books (and no, I'm not a conservative, but at least he's no crybaby), Buddhist monks, passionate Twi-hards, skateboarders, pet owners, cupcake lovers, the sort of people who'll pick up a "Philippine-exclusive" compilation of Scandinavian indie pop that Alyssa's probably downloaded already - that crowd who you know you'll never really understand, much more fit into, without raising eyebrows. And then, right across the street, there's Market! Market!, and the crowd changes completely.

What else do you expect from Bonifacio High Street anyway?

It's inevitable, really, the feeling that all along, you're not part of anything really significant, or actually, anything that you aspire to be. Somewhere in the back of your head you want to be something, and always, someone's beat you to it. When you're there, you always want to punch further above your weight, and someone's beat you to it. I remember asking on Twitter whether they are genuinely happy with how their lives turned out at the moment, and I was surprised that someone - Issa - answered that she is. I don't know what that exactly means, but for the rest of us, there's still a lot of trying left to do.

My effort to, I don't know, be at par, at least subconsciously, with other people came at a price. There was that magazine, and then there was this book on Woodward and Bernstein that's around P800, which I figured I'd read when I'm on the plane to Singapore later this year, again. And then there's David Sedaris, the author which I discovered when Liz observed that we share the same writing style (but, as she wryly put it, not the same sense of humor; I agree). Same purposes. That's a thousand bucks off my barely-there paycheck.

But my sister failed to buy The Time Traveler's Wife on the back of Les' observation that a lot of new copies dropped on the bookstore a week ago. She failed to get a reservation, and apparently, they sold out the day before we went there. So much for me telling Agnes that it's there. Back to the witch hunt, it seems, and back to our attempts to impress people, or at least look good. The irreversible effects of falling in love and getting it wrong.

Stage phoning, apparently, is the act of pretending that you're calling someone, done especially when you're in public, sometimes to highlight the lack of privacy in the world nowadays.

Nice concept, he thought, when he pulled out his phone and started reading text message. Maybe, he thought, there's such a thing as stage texting. Pretending to text, pretty much.

All he did was unlock the phone, check his inbox, and scroll down the hundred or so messages that are in it.

It was unusually quiet, especially since it should be a pretty hectic day. He shouldn't be fiddling with his phone in the first place. He should be busy doing what he has to do: listen to people. But nobody's talking. Or at least, nobody that he wants to listen to. He'd rather remain quiet, he figured.

She wasn't. She used to be, but she isn't anymore.

He thought it was very unlikely. An irritating thought, peppered with laughter, or the sound of heavy breathing, something he never heard before, as he scrolled down his inbox, rereading messages from a month ago. It's idle talk they say he would have if he waited it out, or tried not to offend.

Fool-proof, but apparently not. Better make a hypothetical wall with masking tape.

But, he figured, there's no such thing as a non-participatory clause. He had to deal with the terrible speaking, or at least live with the cracking voice, and join in, at least to keep up appearances.

He didn't. Well, actually he did without trying and nothing happened.

"They're imbeciles," said message number 26. "They have a metal detector..."

Well, he figured, it actually fits. Or he's trying to put himself above the third basement, but that's thinking too much. The lack of privacy, if he didn't keep it to himself. He did, fortunately.

Item one: Last night we had this random conversation on the dinner table about dreams. Only then did I realize that my dreams fell in any one of three loose categories. The first involves situations in school, which hasn't happened lately because I'm obviously not in school anymore. The second involves this constant image of the bottom of a swimming pool in the middle of the night. The third involves me and a girl, running around some complicated maze of a building, looking for something, but often than not being chased by unidentified men, again in the middle of the night. It can be a mall, it can be a house directly connected to a train station, and it can be any girl, but there are the constants. I wonder what that means?

Item two: I have two observations whenever I watch any show that's hosted by Giada de Laurentiis. One, she always eats, and eat a lot she does, but she still remains really slim. Two, she always wears low-cut tops, if that is the right term, which means she cooks while giving everyone some view of her cleavage. When I made that observation, my mother reprimanded me, thinking all I did while watching Everyday Italian was stare at her boobs, forgetting that I always watched cooking shows when I was a kid.

Item three: I was looking through the novelization of Princess Protection Program and, as always, I looked at the obligatory full-color insert with screen grabs and behind-the-scenes photos from the television special. Only then did I notice that Demi Lovato does have a cleft chin, which suddenly makes her look odd. Or, I guess that's why I have the slightest musings over her co-star, Selena Gomez.

Item four: Why is it that most, if not all, of the most substantial local magazines being sold today are pretentious? And no, I'm not talking about those fashion magazines, and definitely not FHM or that sort. It's actually frustrating going to a bookstore, browsing through the magazine section, and realizing that none of the offerings actually spoke to you: they either target the lowest common denominator, or the ones who can afford to buy a private jet, or at least dinner at a five-star hotel. Or, it's me who wants to get to that level, making me, or all of us, feel that we can reach that next level, and then failing. Perhaps that's the reason why I buy Spin more often than I should. Or, at the very least, listen to obscure independent artists online.

Item five: Why is it so hard to find a copy of Aubrey Niffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife? No, it's not for me; it's for my sister, who needs it for school, which is why she bought the compiled edition of all twelve Watchmen comic books. Or graphic novel, sure. Stuff about literary works being translated to films. Kevin apparently told her it's hard to find that novel, and true enough, we went to five bookstores without luck. The associations attached to the book, and to the upcoming film, could be worse.

Item six: I've sent a handful of birthday greetings the past few weeks and some of them didn't get even some public acknowledgment. Does that automatically mean they don't give a damn about the guy who was given the Most Thoughtful award at one point in, I don't know, 1996? Better yet, when should you bother being thoughtful, and when shouldn't you? Obviously, or maybe I'm the only one, it sucks making an effort to be recognized when all you get is a quick dismissal, or nothing at all.

Item seven: What exactly is a date? I remember telling my folks about another observation: that Ariane and I have been together in Ortigas many times. A "date", as Clarence described it three years back. My mother again told me that I should be courting her. I never really thought of the possibility, because we should know it's more complicated than it sounds, which is why we invented terms such as "friendly dates" and "one-night stands" and that sort. Oh, and I'm bound to be misinterpreted, but as far as I know, Ariane's got a boyfriend, and all we really can be are good friends, regardless of those associations.

Item eight: We always end up falling in love with, or at least get infatuated with, or at least have slight musings for, people who we know we cannot have. Must be the challenge, or the feeling to climbing one step up whatever ladder we're climbing. It was some random thought I ended up having while reading old blog entries for boredom's sake. Or, in this society, it probably refers to what one character from The Mentalist said: "love is for men who can't get laid." So it must be that debate about substance against shallowness. I'll never figure it out.

Oh no.

Why?

It's happening.

What?

The one thing we don't want to happen. Him thinking of her.

Oh God, you're right. He is thinking of her. What exactly?

I don't know. I'm still grabbing the readings.

He seems fine to me, really. You'd often see it in his face. He's got those little squirms when he goes in that direction.

Here it is.

Consciousness free flow?

Yeah. "I'm not antisocial. I just don't go with people I don't go well with."

Go on.

"Why is she laughing with him? Why him? What's with him?"

He's heading that direction again. You've got to go stop those thoughts. We can't compromise this set-up!

Inputs say otherwise. At this rate it seems inevitable.

Why's he going that way anyway? Was it classified? Don't tell me he's been denying it! He said he's done with it! He's put it down on paper!

It's frustrating circumstances, damn it!

Then do something about it!

It's beyond my control now!

Call in an epiphany alert! He'll realize he thought wrong, he'll realize he's still in love with her, it will happen all over again...

What happened?

It's gone?

Seems so. I'm checking the stream. He, he squished it himself.

I highly doubt that.

Maybe you shouldn't. For once.

Apparently you were asking about me, so hello there. How are you? How's the vice presidency treating you? Obviously the treasury wasn't exactly built for you. Oh, yeah, you're asking me how I am, not the other way around, right. Sorry about that.

Right. I'm currently working, like perhaps everybody else who's already graduated. I actually got hired before graduation, although sometimes I wish I got Trix's job, which is impossible because I only heard of the opening when she already got it, or so I deduce. I'm typing this thing at work now, actually. Victim of the so-called global economy. I write about television for work. I've openly crushed on Allison Iraheta and Deborah Ann Woll, and I've wondered about what makes Robert Pattinson supposedly attractive.

On a good day I finish everything before lunch. That happens often, but not too often, depending on the stuff I help cover, or cover entirely. During free time, I catch up on my viewing. I just came off watching a couple of episodes of The Mentalist because I'm doing it and I've been intrigued by the show and they only started airing it here this month. If there's absolutely nothing to do, and if all the website I've read have been exhausted, I keep myself busy by drinking water or having some mints, play them around in my mouth.

Like most of us frustrated people, in varying degrees, my life's been a routine of some sorts. I wake up before five because my siblings have school, even if I don't really have to, since my work begins at nine. Maybe that's why I finish everything early, because I arrive here around half past seven, on average. I spend twelve hours every day, on average, not talking. I spend twelve hours every day, on average, with something stuffed in my ear. It can get worse if I have a mood swing.

My life's not really exciting. Perhaps I'm as lost, if not more lost, than most of my "friends". The biggest milestones of my life so far, apart from the occasional (and much appreciated) heaps of praise from the folks in Seattle, involves money. It's either I buy myself some pretty grand stuff, which so far includes my iPod's power adaptor and a hard drive for my PC, or I get to leave some for a rainy day, in this case, a time deposit. I can't really scream about it. You know how hyperactive, perhaps rambunctious, I get in school. Suddenly I have nothing to celebrate about. I don't feel comfortable boasting my achievements, if any. When I feel frustrated, like when Firefox fails on me when I type a single letter, I can't really voice out my frustrations. It's not right, so they say. I'm never really comfortable with standards.

Like I said, I spend twelve hours on average not talking. Twelve hours alone, relying on the keyboard to connect with the outside world, not expecting anything but similarly giddy when something comes up. I talk to myself every time I go to the toilet. It acts as a release for me. It's solace of sorts. It's as if I'm talking to someone. Like, actually talking to someone, not some random exchange of words flashing on the screen, something that tells you how the whole thing's turning out, rather than guessing whether they're bored or annoyed or any other negative reaction. It's funny how everything revolves around that, really. I don't have a normal work life: I don't talk with any of my colleagues, mostly because they hate me before I can even say a word. Figured you can't fake concern despite falling in love with one of them.

I've been looking for new work. I always have. I've only had two job interviews since I started working here fifty-nine weeks ago. One took four months to respond. The other, well, I'm not hoping on it anymore. I figured I can't stay seated to a desk writing about things I can't exactly relate about. I figured I can't stay isolated, surrounded by whatever expletive you can think of.

Problem is, I'm not good enough for anything else but this one. Nobody answers back. Damn, I should've applied for The Lasallian again, especially when Karla tried convincing me to do so. I should've focused on all those opportunities rather than give my all to my studies and get high grades. But it seems everybody else is getting along better, much better than I am, and, well, what else can you do? Seeing other people have fun, get along, have the courage to change their lives, ask questions, ask for something in return, money, feelings, relationships, balance, success. Me, well, I've contended with living like this for the next seventy years of my life. Nobody bothers to listen, nobody bothers to include, and nobody bothers to deal with anything that has to do with me. Surely you don't have that sort of problem, right? High position in the Student Council, respected by peers, good grades, reasonably popular, not to mention the necessary connections and the all-too-needed courage...

Oh, wait, I'm sorry, you have to leave? I expected that. Nobody's interested in me anyway. Well. Thank you for your time, if ever there was. I certainly hope we'd actually met up in the future, Nadia, rather than have me type my answer to a question you passed through others, after taking so long to remember the connections do exist.

I'm not the happiest person in the world. That's a given, really, because otherwise I wouldn't be writing this thing, right? It's so predictable of me, sure. Now that's settled.

It must be Sunday. I get here and I feel very, very rattled. No, it's not because of tomorrow, because I seriously couldn't care less about the bitches; if you're impressing Seattle, then by all means, do so. Then again, it could be a factor. There's always something with the end of the weekend, the start of another five days of wondering why you even bother trying when nobody will give you another chance.

It's what it's been, really. Nobody gives you another chance, or at least that's how it feels most of the time. After so many years of being there for anyone, nobody is being there for you. Same old complaints, followed by the same old realizations, that someone is there for you, then you spin it around.

Yes, a mood swing.

Ning almost laughed at me yesterday when I told her that I felt bad whenever I check Facebook. No, really, it's something as shallow - or as big, if you're CNN - as Facebook. Highlights section to the right, there's always a smattering of posts, and nothing involving you, and yes, that is shallow. It's the power of the tag. You let someone know what you've written and ask for reactions of some sort.

Shallow, but there are all of the things they talk about. "I'm off to dinner with..." or "I had a nice time with..." or "I think he's..." or whatever, just a means to let everyone know what they're up to, and definitely to spite them. A big finger, I must say. I'm being cynical. I'm wondering what I've done that's made me just the last choice, or maybe not a choice at all. Seeing friends dissing friends, you wonder whether they do the same for you, and they do. There's the reason why I felt offended when Jason, Jill, Malia and Ale started talking about four years ago. There's the reason why I felt Ariane didn't want to tell me what happened to her interview, or why I feel Icka is slowly annoyed when I talk to her about stuff, or why I'm suddenly willing to single people out. My "friends", so to speak.

That's all you're good for, anyway. A punching bag, but not as stylish as Jeanine and Evan. Apart from that, you're not any good for them. Fail, fail. And you wonder why you even bother, because in the first place they've already decided that you do not deserve it. Lip service, no effort, just appease him so he'll feel better and he'll leave you behind and you can focus on screwing with someone else, goodbye.

There's a reason why I don't invite anybody to Starbucks.

Gerald said it quite nicely, so I'll pretty much paraphrase him: why do we have to deserve someone's friendship? If it's a purely good thing, then there must be no reservations, no requirements, no entry fee, and no doors whatsoever. Just give it because you have to and they need it. If it fails, then let go of it, but always provide an option to return - much like overdue fees in libraries. All I get is a feeling of insignificance, that nobody in this world gives a damn about me, that nobody wants me to be anybody for them, and fuck you if you think I'm wallowing in self-pity or calling for attention or being desperate and all. I'm sure you've felt this way, but in one way or another someone's brought you up. Isn't it that hard to pass it on to me?

One unit is, say, one inch. So one unit down is one inch down, and one unit to the left is one inch to the left.

Now that's cleared, you have two points, side by side, separated by, say, seven units. The one to the left will move downwards, three units down and half a unit to the right, in an arc. The one to the right will do the exact mirror image of what the left will do. That should make it easy.

Now both points are separated by six units. Both will continue moving downward, still in an arc, and still symmetrical, but now, and we're talking about the left here, it will go down two and a half units down and one and a half units to the left. The right will do the mirror image, as it always does.

So you have two curves, two crescents with their backs against each other, with more depth at the bottom than at the top. The two points are now separated by eight units. Add a little more perspective, maybe move backward so it looks like it's far from you and it's moving away from you, and you're pretty much ready to roll.

Two things. One, like everyone else, I have hormones. Two, it's a very awkward feeling, and that itself is awkward.

Leslie's only got roughly twenty days of waiting to do, but as it comes closer I'm still expecting that we'd end up reminiscing about how life was before we graduated. All that waiting for the weekend, for one. She once quipped that companies should follow DLSU's example, and implement a four-day work week, which isn't exactly a good economic indicator. Nonetheless, I get her point.

Sure, we're somehow trying to relive our more carefree college years, perhaps by meeting up with old friends or, as I did before, actually visit for a very arbitrary reason. Lately, however, it seems I've been taking a different approach: seriously watching the UAAP.

I'm not really a fan of the Green Archers, although I understand that everybody else around me are. (Of course, if you know people who claim to have entered the university solely for the basketball team, well, how extreme can it get?) I haven't seen a game live, I haven't fallen in line at the Yuchengco lobby for tickets, I haven't gone crazy for the players - although that's more of Kat's specialty - and I haven't closely followed the actual games. But you end up supporting your team by default; thus, I was rooting for them anyway, hoping that they'd win, especially in the crucial moments.

Oddly, it's only now, a full year after I've graduated, that I've really followed how our team has gone. I guess it's because my brother's really getting into basketball, being a varsity player in high school; every night I'd come home from work and see him slumped on the sofa, watching reruns on BTV. All his analysis with my dad has naturally gotten me curious, especially now that it's the UAAP, and with the PBA over, he can only turn to his peers from another level.

Now, he's literally against DLSU, and only because both of his siblings came from there. Of course, that adds an extra dimension to things. Include a cousin who's an ardent Archer supporter, and the two of us actual La Salle students, and you have some discussions.

We were at our grandparents' house last week, watching the Archers almost lose to the Falcons. Actually, I expected us to lose. I've always said I never trusted our line-up to make it far this season, and it's no dismissive grunt: their lack of experience and a go-to guy is pretty much a given. Then again, we were facing the Falcons, and after a two-game winning streak - both with down-and-out teams - it felt momentum and luck were on their side. We ended up winning when Adamson started panicking, and the close calls had me screaming at the right moments. Unfortunately, nobody likes noisy people, and when you're beside someone who makes odd sounds and the occasional expletive - how exactly do you spell pucha? - you're bound to get hissed. My brother always does that. He hates me, and yet we won the game by one point.

Today we were at our uncle's house, and the television was again tuned in to the UAAP games, and the Archers going against the Tigers. Now, I felt, we're going to break our three-game streak: we are the obvious underdogs. Jeanna, my Thomasian cousin, had enough reason to believe that they will beat us, and I thought the possibility wasn't a small one. Even my uncle, who's a Tamaraw-head, said the same thing. For a moment, they were right, when UST broke away with a sixteen-point lead after a fairly close game.

It was a new, empty house, and there wasn't much left to do aside from sleep and eat, so I ended up watching the game. You know what you get next.

There I was, a DLSU graduate who didn't really bother caring that much for our athletes, suddenly cheering really loudly in front of a television screen. And enough reason, too: the third quarter was hopeless, but the fourth was a different matter entirely. All those unknown names - well, not exactly, since Hyram Bagatsing was a classmate of mine at one point - managed to whittle down UST's lead to two points, and suddenly we had a real chance of winning the game. On the contrary, I was happy with us losing, as long as it wasn't a blowout win.

Tied at 82, UST took possession, finished up the shot clock, tossed a shot from the paint, and made it. So that is it, right? We were frantic, sure. Three seconds won't be enough. There was some commotion over the last shot, because the ball took its time bouncing around the rim, but for the most part, we've conceded that the Tigers won. Time to go home.

After watching most of our games this season, I've noticed that Studio 23's graphics have failed to update on time. Sometimes the score would remain at a certain point even if both teams have already made a shot. It got confusing when the television showed that the game had ended at 82-all. "End of regulation," it said. The game wasn't over yet, but we haven't figured that one out, oddly. Seems we didn't catch the commentary acknowledging the bad Tiger shot, or they didn't do the announcement at all. Hyped up and slightly wheezy, we filed a bid to stay until the game ends. Didn't happen. We were in Rizal and we had to go back to Cavite.

"Sinong nanalo?" I texted Jeanna, around twenty minutes later. Of course, overtime only lasts for five minutes, so unless there's been one hell of a commotion, it should be over. It took ten minutes for her to reply, and she didn't have much news.

"Wala pa," she said.

"Second overtime?" I answered in disbelief. She only said yes.

It was, somehow, a good decision to go home early. The game somehow dragged longer than we expected, because I didn't get any updates until when we were in Alabang. Of course, we can't go screaming anymore inside the car, plus there's no way to find out what's happening live - local radio can be so unreliable and out of touch - but her last update somehow summed it all up.

"Fuck."

"I think we won," I told my sister.

Two crucial three-pointers and a four-game winning streak later, I have to get ready, somehow, for next week. It's the slightly-anticipated game against Ateneo,which actually ends up getting me more tired than excited, because from experience, it's the week our university stops and everybody goes in line to buy legitimate or scalped tickets. But my brother's an unabashed Eagles fan, again because he has two Archer siblings. We may not win, but it'd be nice to give him a serious one-up. Why this didn't happen sooner, I don't know.

I think my brother thinks lowly of me. He once commented, at the end of a summer day - back when I still had summer vacation - that my phone hasn't sounded, and implied that I didn't have any friends. (Which is probably true; there's a reason for those air quotes lately.) Today, I noticed I have 23 notifications on Facebook, and he answered, "23 lang?" I must be such a loser.

Oddly enough, I haven't given up on reconnecting with my so-called friends, and only because the term "acquaintances" sound so harsh considering the past. Today, for instance, someone dropped a message on YM, announcing a new phone number, and I quickly took my phone to list it down, only I never really had her phone number in the first place.

Gaille and I aren't really close, which is expected, because it's a rarity for a regular LIA student to be close with a LIA-COM student. Those guys stick together a lot. Well, sure, we've bumped into each other in many classes, especially research class, where I was a sore thumb, and journalism class, which remains debatable. However, we were classmates in gender studies class, proven by the many candid photos of her that I took, which definitely sounds freaky, although it was really an effort to document every day of my last term.

All I'm saying is, me not having her number was a surprise initially, but once you get the background, you understand why.

So I took my phone, took the number down, and sent a text message. "Apparently I never had your number until now," I said, before finally introducing myself. Only then did I realize that she was online, and that meant I spent one peso on something I could've done for free. Well, slightly.

"Was that you?" she asked online.

"That was me," I answered.

I wasn't pushing for a conversation. I didn't expect it; she was letting go, and I was just continuing what I wanted to express, which wasn't anything gloopy, but rather, my surprise that she is actually around. "I didn't realize you're online!" I said, laughing through the keyboard while trying to remember what I wanted to do. I'd end up forgetting it anyway.

"That's funny," she answered. "I sent you a message!"

"I've yet to receive it," I answered, grabbing my phone and waiting for Edwyn Collins to sing that song that's moot now considering the scenario. "So..."

"No," she answered. "I meant the YM message. So you should've seen the yellow ball beside my name."

But of course, I saw the yellow ball beside her name, which is why I felt a bit flustered, and a little more confused.

"Wait, wait," I said. "I meant I didn't realize you were online until after I sent you the text."

"Yes, and I meant it's funny since I sent you a YM message," she said. "You would've seen the yellow ball beside my name. Am I confusing you?"

Actually, she was.

"You are confusing me," I said.

It wasn't getting any clearer.

"I thought so," she answered.

It finally did.

"And that's a rare thing," I said, somehow trying to save myself from hypothetical shame. But saying that meant I had to save myself from the idea that I'm being cocky - consider, folks, that some of my "friends" who willingly yet cowardly delete me on Twitter are cocky, or so I choose to believe - so I had to say something else. "Well, not that rare, but you know what I mean. You're not as confused as I am, if at all."

She just laughed. "It's weird because I didn't think that my reply would be confusing," she answered. "Oh well!"

It was amusing, but it could only take me so far. Besides, now I have her number, what do I do with it?