Believe it or not, ladies, it's actually easy to annoy me.

First, you should be able to find me. I'm actually easy to spot. I always have a pair of earphones plugged in, and my iPod is either on my back pocket or inside my bag. I wear glasses, the usual black frames, not as thick unless I'm using my replacements. My usual glasses has a crack on my right lens. My replacements only look chipped.

I'm usually in a mall during my lunch break, which happens at one in the afternoon in most cases. I often avoid the lunch rush, and I get more work done that way. Or, you can see me walking the same route at six in the evening, unless I'm getting a haircut or passing by the supermarket. That's through the Shang, up the second floor, up the fourth floor, up the fifth floor, across EDSA via the MRT station, and down the stairs to the shuttle terminal nearby. Valerie taught me that. It's the same escalators if you enter through the restaurants.

You just have to spot me going to an escalator, because more often than not I'm alone. You can't do this if you're alone, though. You have to be with a guy, preferably your boyfriend, and you have to look preppy.

Now, get on the escalator before I get on it. You have to be directly in front of me: more often than not, I'll let you in first. (This actually works better in an escalator going up; escalators going down shouldn't be called escalators because you're not escalating.) While I end up staring either at the floor or your butt, which is inevitable, look at the guy beside you and laugh. Laugh arbitrarily. And then have the guy put his arm around your waist, like you usually do. And then have the guy kiss you in the cheek. Receive the kiss - it should be in the cheek, although you can risk locking your lips for maximum effect. And most importantly, just look happy.

What will happen is this: I'll snap out of my solitude and notice whatever you're doing. I'll look up, because I can't resist not looking at something that's moving - I must be a motion detector, a faulty one - and I'll get pissed at your public display of affection, although it isn't really as revolting as that couple I saw exchanging tongue when I was still in college. Still, you would have managed to show me the one thing I don't have: someone to do just that to.

One. As the story goes, I was in a restaurant, meeting a friend, and I told that friend what I have been up to the past year or so, which is pointless, I said, because nothing has changed anyway, except, perhaps, for an extra boost from where you least expect it. And that friend wondered about why I lived through the same thing for the past year, and I didn't have an answer. I do not exactly have anything to hold on to. I do not know why I am holding on to it. Unless, of course, I'm holding on to something else and everything else is mere circumstance.

Two. As another story goes, I was, well, somewhere, meeting an acquaintance, and we knew the same person, and I asked about the said person, and the acquaintance admits that, "yes, I know that guy, and that guy hates me, and I don't know why." And I thought, shame, because there is a chance of restoring whatever has to be restored.

Three. I know there is nothing to be restored. In fact, I don't have to start anything in the first place. I know for a fact that I can only try so hard, and when nothing happens, what is the use, then, of trying until you die? I know that, if there's nothing left to do, there must be something else worth trying, something worth your time, something that will actually give you something. But there is nothing left to try at the moment, and I am left with the one thing that doesn't work, that is frustrating me, that is getting in my nerves, from my right temple down to my neck, from the tips of my fingers to my palm, connecting to my face, in despair, perhaps, in shock.

Four. I reached out to the guy. I don't understand why the guy doesn't want to reach back out. And then I see the guy's thoughts and I discover that the guy hates me, that the guy has removed me from an important list, and I thought, why try when nothing happens anyway? There are more things that are worth my attention, and more things that will give back, and I will stick with them. The guy lost me.

Five. Is it wrong to feel that you don't like me? You won't think what they think if you tried. I am the one who's supposed to think you hate me before I hate you. I am not the bad guy. It's so funny how misanthropic you are. You never talked to me. And then you expect me to do something? Okay, so the argument is flawed, and yes, you tried. And I accepted. And then you stopped. Just like that. Why, because I was angry at you? Is it wrong to openly wonder why that was the case before you reached out? When you reached out, I took it. And I, I was going to take it back. But you took it back first, and now you're puzzled why I hate you?

Six. I don't like match sticks. I don't really know how to use them. I'm scared of being burned, even if it's for a short time, and even if it's just my fingers, as long as the temperature is high, it's not recommended. The same way, I don't like lighters. I don't know how to start a fire unless it's from a distance, so I don't really have an experience with starting fires. Well, except if I have a long stick, which I don't have. More often than not someone else starts the fire for me, and I just work with it, and it will burn me, and I will be angry at that someone else who started the fire. All of my burn marks, it's because someone else started the fire and aimed it at me.

November's still a week away, and already I'm one-thirds through that David Sedaris book that I picked up a couple of months ago. I did say I won't open that until a couple of weeks from now, when I'm on a three-hour flight to Singapore, bored with inflight entertainment. Then again, that's pretty unlikely. In the case that it happens, I have another book to read.

I mentioned this before, I know. I picked up David's latest book because I remember him from what Lizette told me that one time. I figure I took it as a compliment, which is why it's stuck in my head. She says we share the same writing style - and of course, it's a compliment, because he's a bestselling author! I agreed after a few weeks, when she sent me a clandestine copy of one of his earlier books, and I realized that we have the same approach when it comes to words, but definitely not with the perspective we share. And then I started downloading the This American Life podcasts and I heard some of his contributions, and I laughed, and I told myself I'll buy one of his books when I chance upon it. It still amounted to an impulse buy, though.

After a handful of essays from When You Are Engulfed in Flames, I don't regret anything. The critics were right: you do come off as smarter, somehow. And yet you pore through the paragraphs and you still marvel at how effortlessly he does it: a flutter through different topics, much like The Simpsons to an extent, and yet it all boils down to that one thing, and you don't realize it until the very end, when you start thinking about what you'd read and, when you think you've figured it out, you believe you're smarter. All throughout, you're laughing despite the situation being absolutely absurd, or despicable. He's got your attention.

I thought, "we can't share the same writing style."

Maybe we do, but we have pretty much nothing in common. The stuff he writes about are interesting: experiences here, experiences there, skewed outlook, you get a book, you get thousands of people to buy it and read it and think you're the greatest. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but people return because you have interesting things to tell, and even if it's something you usually (absolutely) don't want to deal with, you still do. Me? All I do - and I know that's all I do - is complain.

As much as I think that my writing's getting better, I think my writing's getting angrier, and you all know nobody wants an angry someone blasting angry stuff down their senses. There's a reason why liberals make fun of Glenn Beck, after all. Well, initially it will make sense, but in the long run it gets ridiculous and tiring and unbearable. "Kasi naman, Niko, ligawan mo na kasi si Neobie, hindi yung nagmumukmok ka lang diyan kasi ayaw niya sa'yo." And then they get flustered with the same old, and then they go.

If, for some reason, I decide to pursue a career as a writer for magazines, then I have absolute no hope where I'm headed. People do not read essays that's mostly a complaint about how crappy life has been lately. Editors do not accept essays that's mostly a complaint about how hard it is to be published. What the masses want is something that either makes sense, or is easy to take, which is why there are more fashion magazines in the shelves, or ones that carry essays about people who became successful because they did not pursue a writing career, instead crunching numbers or kissing ass. Nobody wants cynicism on their bedside, more so in their heads. I would've studied at Gokongwei instead of Miguel if I only knew that's how things go. Or maybe stayed at Miguel, but rather than holding a camera and running around, I'd probably be reading books on politics, which would've led me to the same route anyway.

So much for telling Ning and Valerie - or being told, I can't recall - that my cynicism is what makes my writing supposedly great. In Valerie's words, "awesomesauce". But it certainly won't stack up to the people who get sold in actual bookstores, who get actual praise from actual literary critics, and who get to sit back and just be happy with where they are, even if there's really nothing to be happy about. It's impossible, me getting published, or me getting, I don't know, recognized further. Or anybody being happy, for that matter. No wonder sugar is so important.

As with many of my other blog entries, I know I shouldn't be writing this. Or, at the very least, I shouldn't be writing this here. Maybe elsewhere more secure, although we all know secrets no longer exist.

There was this girl. I didn't know how, or why, I was following her on Twitter, but then I realized that I had her email address and inadvertently followed her when I did an email search. She was a classmate of mine. You know how I somehow end up representing the class in things, when teachers ask for someone to do things for everyone. I never really intended to follow her because we didn't really know each other. I had closer friends in that class.

Well, fine, I stuck with it. I reply to her tweets and she replies to mine. She'd see my frustrated one-liners and she's answer. I'd see her frustrated one-liners and I'd answer. You know, friendly replies to tweets. All along, I tried very hard to remember her face, but I couldn't. I remember the name, though. I remember adding her up on YM back in class, because I thought I'd send them urgent messages through that. Could be because there were many people in that class, could be because she's from a lower batch, could be because something else was distracting me.

And then she didn't respond to my responses, and I didn't mind.

I mean, we don't really know each other, and there are things you do not expect others to do just because it happened before. I just saw her tweets, and she probably saw mine, and nothing happened. It went on for months. I didn't mind.

Today, that streak was broken. It's my fault. I can't really resist responding to a Glee-related tweet, partly because I do it for work, but mostly because it makes me look a little bit more cool. She said she was new to the show, and she decided to join in because everybody else around her was raving about it, the same way many of the people around me are, regardless of whether I introduced them or not. So I posted a response, telling her of the two-week break the show took in the United States, so she has enough time to watch all eight episodes before getting up to speed with the ninth. I got a direct message in response.

"Hey," she said. "So sorry that I can't follow you or reply to your tweets. My boyfriend gets jealous. So sorry! Hope you understand."

Well, I actually do, so I decided to send her a message back, saying that I do understand. But Twitter says I can't send her the message anymore. She has unfollowed me.

But at least she told me she's unfollowing me, unlike some of my friends. Supposedly my friends.

It wasn't supposed to be quiet, that room. I don't remember what time it is, but it shouldn't be quiet. Instead, all I heard were the same voice prompts and the same beeps. Ten numbers punched in, followed by three more. Repeatedly.

"This feels like Lost," I said to myself.

I knew nobody would be listening, so I just said it under my breath. I was too busy punching in the numbers, though. It was, oddly, a bit calming, at least until someone answered. I was hoping someone answered. Yet I thought, "why am I hoping for someone to answer?"

Soon, the ten consecutive beeps weren't alone anymore.

"Parang naaalala ko si Kevin kay James."

I think that's what she said. I don't know. Maybe it's Jim. I don't watch The Office. I only know Jim and Pam got married. But it can't be that. I actually thought they might be talking about me. It came out of the blue. Are they actually making fun of me? I'm just punching in numbers! You wanted me to punch in the numbers!

I don't really remember how the conversation went. The dialing went on, and it probably was about common friends, something I absolutely cannot believe. It happened before. It's always happened. Every time the headphones fail it happens. Well, I don't really have a reason to remember that conversation. That, and the whole thing was a bit of a hush-hush. My paranoia is suggesting they didn't want me to hear. Well, I was there, and I heard stuff.

She was laughing.

Every time the headphones fail it happens.

I was getting bored with dialing, unusual, since I don't get bored with cropping pictures. Thankfully, I had an excuse. I was down with the cold, still down with the cold, and I was feeling some of the gross bits coming out of my left nostril. I really had to go to the toilets, to blow my nose, to do my business, to let off steam.

"Pwedeng kayo muna mag-dial nito?" I went.

"Hindi na yan gagana," she answered. Disinterestingly, I must note. And I'm not making this up to push my point.

"Subukan n'yo na rin," I said as I stood up and walked out of the room. "It's not destiny. It's fate."

I laughed when I got out of the room. It was, I realized, an attempt to ape Lost's "don't confuse coincidence with fate" line. Perfect timing, when I laughed, the gross stuff did come out of my nostril, barely. But I figured nobody was listening anyway. I figured the conversation continued. And all those beeps went nowhere.

Supposedly, it'd be me eating a Japanese rice bowl, a long receipt in one hand, a pen in another, writing down phrases that I'd bring back to the office and attempt to make a conversation with. So was my usual route: two escalator rides after the supermarket, and straight to another set of escalators, about a couple of hundred steps away, unless my estimates are wrong.

There was an unusually high number of people today. Turns out it's a weekend sale, with payday falling on yesterday for most of the world. The stalls are all out, and so are the signages, and in one instance, balloons. So there's no way my plans would be derailed, right?

Instead, I found myself entering a totally different restaurant.

"Clarence?"

There was no planned meet-up. In fact, Clarence was the person I'd least expect to see in the Ortigas area. She was with Jojo, her boyfriend (and Elaine's brother, to add a second degree of identification) and they were headed to, of all places, Batangas. The detour was obviously an unusual one. But my detours were much more unusual: I initially decided not to say hello to them, thinking it's a date that shouldn't be disturbed, and then I decided to have lunch with them, partly because an invitation was extended.

"Isang fried mac and cheese," Clarence later told the waitress, who was pretty giddy, to the point of writing a personal thank you note on our final bill. "Saka... isang homemade mac and cheese. Para sa kanya."

She points at Jojo. The fried one was a shared thing. I had some seafood pasta; she had something I had before.

"Di na kayo nagsawa, sir!" the waitress quipped. I think her name was Ellen. Or Jenny.

The two now work, part-time, at an events company, one of the many places our crop of graduates landed on. No surprise, really. They've been doing that sort of thing for what felt like forever. To my frustration, the conversation revolved around me - I tried my hardest to ask them questions, but somehow they all got returned to me, so it ended up being a fragmented discussion on Glee and Giada de Laurentiis and my meet-ups with Ariane and Jino working as an editor for Sir Doy and the fact that I only talk to Aly online, which is why I'll never know why Clarence had the urge to tell me she's getting thinner if I wouldn't know in the first place.

That was all there is to it, really. A pretty long conversation that went towards an hour, three hundred bucks spent, and no bill to write thoughts on. (Well, no time to write anything. I usually write while I eat. I still rush after all these years.) It felt good, really, like all friendly conversations should, a complete contrast from my almost-meltdown at the office, with the traffic jam and the uncooperative PC (which shut down all of a sudden later) and the usual they-buy-her-take-out-so-I-won't-notice-they-have-lunch-together theories. And then I return to the office, and type in a pretty coherent article without the need for notes, and everything was back to normal.

Well, until I found out Aly eventually met with Clarence and Jojo. Man, that was one hell of a detour.

For the past three, four, five weeks, I've had this urge to yell and curse in front of my work computer. It always seems to freeze at the worst times: whenever I'm typing something; whenever I get back from the toilets; whenever I watch something, live or recorded; whenever I'm reading my email. In other words, pretty much every single time.

I don't understand, really. This PC (which won't let me blog, really, since it won't load Blogger in the right way for some odd reason) is configured the same way as my home PC. It works with the same (paltry) amount of memory, and runs on the same processing speed. It runs less applications, since I don't have the benefit of having my 7000-song music library on call at work. And yet it hangs more often.

But I don't give a damn about rationality anymore, which is why I'd rather yell and curse than ponder why this PC is failing me every single day. I could have the tech staff defragment this thing's hard drive, but my chums at that department are now on the night shift, and there always seems to be nobody watching over the servers when I'm at work. If I was crazy enough, I could demand an upgrade to this PC, but of course, I'm at the bottom of the ladder, a regularized employee with no concept of what a pay raise is. So, instead, I'd rather express my frustration in the manner than I know will work: something attention-grabbing.

I had this reputation for having a lack of self-control when I was in elementary school. Sure, we call it "impulsiveness" now, but back then, I was the mischievous kid. I never got the highest honors even if I could because of my attitude problem. I always had a tantrum for everything. I didn't want to have measles shots because I was scared of those long needles, and I remember lying on the concrete floor, crying and shouting. I always had this violent streak. Ask Mhel Rose - well, she probably doesn't remember.

They all told me that throwing a fit isn't a good thing. The principal said it's wrong. My teachers said it's wrong. My classmates stayed away, which sucked since I had this big crush on one of them. My parents probably thought I was a hopeless case. But all that shouting was a good thing for me. Never mind that it your throat hurts in the process, but all the raspy screams? You know that feeling when your vocal chords vibrate so much that you feel it without making an effort to feel it? That feeling of small rocks rubbing against the insides of your throat? It somehow tells you, "let it go, Niko, let it go." And it's oddly liberating. But it's the wrong thing to do, or so they say.

When I think of yelling in front of my desk, I end up thinking about the people around me - my colleagues, for lack of a sarcastically friendlier term, who do not have an idea about what I can do if I just let all my inhibitions go. They'd probably ask me if I'm okay or, the most likely solution, pretend that they're not hearing me and think I'm a lunatic who doesn't deserve to have his attempts at connecting reciprocated. That's what we're all told to do. Do not make a fit. Deal with things in a civilized manner. And by civilized, it means keeping shut and letting others get along with whatever they're doing.

My right fist and my right knee are absolutely banged up. My only way to release my frustrations would be to bang either of them under my desk, making a loud sound - not loud enough to be heard by everyone, just to keep things, uhh, normal. If I had a particularly bad day, I leave the office and scream inside the elevator going down, provided I'm alone and I can guarantee that for the next fifteen floors. It's not as liberating, but in a world where being yourself is never a good thing, it's the least you could do.

I've been inviting a few people to things, but it always never pushes through. Something always gets in the way. "I've got plans that day," went one time. "I'm pretty busy," went another time. "I don't eat burgers," went another time.

There was this one time when I was invited to something. "It's one of the few times being madaldal and opinionated is a good thing," it went. A focus group discussion. I promptly, and conveniently, forgot about it.

Everybody else around me seems to be up to something. I'd be an unintended, and possibly unwelcome, witness to conversations when other people make plans, the very same plans that always get in the way. It could go, "where you tonight, dude?" and it could go, "I'm free, dude, you want to go to Fort?" and it will end, "sige, dude, walang indyanan, ha?"

Well, I do get invites, too, but only for stupid Facebook applications or stupid Facebook causes or stupid Facebook fan pages. I can imagine it going, "please be a fan of my something because you know me," and I always wonder why people expect other people to support them by sheer association. When it's something I'm up to, nobody joins up. When I write something, nobody answers, but nobody wants me to shove a promotion down their throats, while it all goes, "I wrote a new entry, post a comment if you love me!" Nobody wants me to speak up my mind, and it all goes, "huwag ka ngang mag-flood!"

Or, people always come to their aid when they're down and angry at the world. When it's me who's frustrated, it always goes, "solid downer ka naman."

Everybody's always up to something. "I'm thinking of joining a workshop" is a possibility. "I'm going to Megatent to help out" is another. "I'm going to a photo shoot." "I'm going to study abroad." "I'm having a night out with friends after work." "I need some work-life balance." "I'm saving up to go to Hong Kong." "I'm so freaking happy!"

It always goes, "go stop moping and do something!" when it comes to me, but nobody understands that there's nothing left to do at the moment. When I get to do something - make a profit in a video game - it'd always go, "get out and get a fucking life!"

This double standard is frustrating. Everybody wants everybody to be their best, but everybody wants me to be pointless, perhaps so they can be their best. There's nothing left to do.

It wasn't really dark inside, so I remembered that surprised look in the face. It either meant she was happy with my dedication, or more likely, she was happy that I chose to abuse myself further.

"Tatapusin mo yan sa bahay?"

Why not, I figured. One, it's something I have to do, and something my readers would certainly appreciate. Two, I can't do it in the office, naturally, because the power's out. At least, I thought, with my cynical what-the-fuck-did-I-do-to-deserve-this mindset, I do what I have to do no matter what it takes, while all of you take a holiday at every possible opportunity.

The power went out at a little past one in the afternoon - just when I returned to my desk to prepare that one last thing that I had to do. I left the office an hour later, in perhaps the most awkward elevator ride of my life since nine months ago. I had this weird smirk on my face, not because I had to go home early, not because the power went out, but because at the end of the day, I was the only person who managed to post (almost, note) everything. The worry in their faces. I seriously doubted it. It looked more like, "ganito lang rin pala mangyayari, eh!"

And then I told myself, "huwag kang ganyan, kakarmahin ka, baka mag-brownout habang wala ka pang nagagawa." But it's hard to resist, really. Might be the warm temperatures inside a powerless office. Might be all those conversations that warm the whole place further. All that stuff. I tried to be civil with the email from home, probably the only one the folks at Seattle would get. But you know. It's still there. You had to. Much like reading those comments from that one last thing I did, that one last thing I brought home. A good conversation.

Well, the power hasn't gone off, and I finished everything earlier than expected, but I don't really feel better. Still, the feeling of putting people down without them knowing? That's supposed to be satisfying, not like what Rachel and Finn felt later on.

"Niko, hello. Are you a coffee drinker? Can I ask you a few questions about it?"

I don't think I was particularly close to the LIA-COM kids, which is why I sort of know that the only time they'll talk to folks like me is when they need me to answer something. Of course, that isn't general, but if it's from out of the blue, they definitely need something. I remember answering a survey for Kizia, and I remember striking down Bea's idea of carbonated milk tea (because really, will you drink something with conflicting sensations?) and that's within two hours of each other.

This time, however, it was Asia. It must be some improvised focus group discussion. And I was in the middle of work, or at least, waiting for the stuff I'm working on to come up so I can work on it.

"Why do you drink coffee?"

"To feel warm, mostly. Or feel luxurious, in the case of Starbucks."

"Why is it luxurious?"

"Because it's expensive? Parang I treat myself with Starbucks sometimes. Dark mocha frap. Apart from that I don't really drink kasi it's not just a habit."

"Why not the other coffee shops?"

"Starbucks kasi is closest to me. Sa office at least."

That should set it up. Her questions, as expected, were about my coffee drinking habits, which is odd, because I never really saw myself as a coffee drinker. I drink coffee, but only on occasion, or lately, on impulse. I know people who can't go on a day without a caffeine shot. I don't think I need it. Anyway. Drinking habits. Stuff like "how do you like your coffee?" or "where do you drink your coffee?", stuff which I don't really have answers on, since I don't expect myself to have a defined preference, which makes me an unreliable sample. I don't drink, as I said.

"Do you drink coffee with people?"

"Does that matter?"

"Well, to you?"

"It doesn't. Thus the question."

"Okay. Why doesn't it matter?"

"I dunno. Siguro kasi I don't really see coffee as a social something. I'm not the type who goes, 'let's have coffee'. Or maybe because nobody ever did that to me. I mean, it's drinking. How can you socialize while drinking coffee?"

"Really? Kahit back in school?"

"Nobody really came to me unless they needed me. Let's put it at that. I had Starbucks during college, but only because it's... practice or something. Not really casual. Maybe I'm being cynical. Bitter, yes."

"Why are you bitter?"

"We're talking about coffee and we end up talking about this? I thought this was something for your class or whatever."

"Sorry. What I got from you is that drinking coffee was a practice of your peers before, yes? And you said not really but because you're bitter, right?"

"The association is... you know. Peers drink coffee casually. Association."

I remember attempting to invite Les for coffee before her last day of work. I remember attempting to invite Raisa for coffee when she was still in Manila, back when I still didn't give a damn about whether people cared about my invitations. Obviously it never went anywhere. The latter, I sense, it was an outright rejection, the "I don't like you" sort.

"So I'm just asking what is it about them you're bitter about that lead you to think it was casual, not really a practice. Like yosi."

"I don't associate coffee with people. Because... yun nga. It's a casual thing for them. Nobody invites me. I feel bitter. Clear?"

"No, it's clear now. Sorry if I had to recount the bitter days."

"I've been recounting bitter days the past week."

"Not healthy, Niko! Stop!"

I gave myself some breathing space. I wasn't annoyed, really. Surprised, more so.

"So what do you often drink? Water? Seriously, ha."

"Water. No, really. I oddly prefer hot chocolate. Milk, breakfast habit. And I'm 20. But I try not to be too hyper. Caffeine rush, yes?"

"Do you really feel the caffeine rush?"

"People hate the hyper me."

I had this weird feeling today, walking into the office from lunch, holding a dark mocha frap from Starbucks. It feels like I was trying to prove something to everyone, perhaps trying to tell them that I can do coffee like everybody else. Actually, I was just sleepy. Sleepier than usual.

I was thinking of marriage last night.

No, it's not because of whoever. In fact, while there's some part of me that's currently geared towards emotional and romantic longing, this thought bubble has absolutely nothing to do with it. Like with half of my thoughts at the moment, it's shallow.

It's about wedding rings.

Partly because I've been reading a lot about wedding rings for work - eventually answered by "yes, Sara Sidle is now Sara Grissom" - and partly because there was this time when I wore a ring around my finger. I think I was ten years old back then, and for some odd reason my parents gave me an old ring to wear around my finger. But I was always the restless kid, and I kept on removing the ring, then putting it back, then removing it.

We were having lunch at some food court at some mall - I can remember where, actually, but I'm too lazy to add hyperlinks - and at some point, I couldn't find the ring. It was a silver ring, pretty simple, nothing significant, but it's still a ring. I think I took the task as a test of whether I can deal with something similar in the future. Instead, my parents and I were looking at the floor surrounding our table, and maybe, one of us approached those guys who clean the tables, thinking they accidentially (or otherwise?) took the ring and threw it away. (Then again, if they threw it away it is an accident.) I can't remember if we found it or not.

My arms are, so far, free from any jewelry of some sort. The flashiest I could wear there would be my watch, and that's six years old and slightly tattered. And yet I take it off when I get home. I never imagine myself wearing a choker bracelet or an anklet for an extended period of time; I feel constricted. I have a couple of choker bracelets that I only wore once or twice ever, probably close to the purchase date. If I had a choice, I wouldn't have had them buy me those, even if they're souvenirs from Hong Kong.

And then, a ring. No, I'm not getting married. What made you think of that? But you should get the drift: a wedding ring is the sort of thing you wear forever, to remind you that you have a commitment, and that you have an obligation, and that you are no longer alone, whatever you may do, wherever you may be. Well, except for the people who take their wedding rings off to pretend that they're not restricted by anything. Or embraced.

Does happiness really rely on limitations of that sort?