I realized one thing this Tuesday. I have become really awkward in social occasions.

Then again, it's not purely because I haven't really been talking to anyone in person for most of the past seventy-four weeks. One, I was talking to Ning, and while we're good friends from college, we never really talked that much. There was, of course, Twitter, and her telling me stuff about my angry writing and everything else in between. The frequency may make it seem like we've been through a lot, but finally meeting her in a restaurant at the Podium, you can see the cracks.

Two, it's the Podium. It's an upscale mall. I don't have problems with upscale malls, since I spend almost every work day at the Shang, but there's this weird feeling that gets to me when I get on the Podium, and that long escalator from the ground floor. I've been there at least thrice before, and all those times it felt like I don't belong, especially when you consider that I wasn't really planning to spend two hundred bucks on lunch alone, much more walking half of Ortigas to get there. But that's a superficial reason, really.

Ning was around for a job interview. Her second one for the day, apparently, the sort when your prospective employer asks you to return the same day, perhaps to keep your hopes up or dampen it. She was supposed to meet up with another friend, but apparently that friend's mother was sick, and couldn't come because she didn't have a car to drive. A few mishandled tweets later, I found myself walking in the rain, slightly rushed by the idea of actually talking with someone after relying all of my communication on a bunch of wires for ten hours a day.

It went on pretty well, really. I knew where to go - this Japanese restaurant I've never heard before - although spotting her was a bit harder, even if she said she was near the entrance. I ended up buying a rice bowl, the cheapest one, and managed to eat with chopsticks. (I know how. It just slows me down. Maybe that is the point.) Of course, we talked, and I tried my best not to talk about myself; lately, I've had the feeling that I'm dominating my conversations, with talk about all the shit that happens behind me. I managed with me telling her about why I think being an editorial assistant isn't something you do for six months before quitting to leave for Los Angeles, but immediately after I was confronted with the worst thing that could happen in any conversation: dead air. Sorry, I meant silence.

"I don't mind," she said as she finished the last of her sushi, apparently free.

Actually, I do. I am, after all, a very insecure person. I think I've always been. I've been doing things just to get people's attention, something that I realized when my brain went back to this time in elementary school. I was in second grade, I think, and my best friend back then came back to class after a couple of weeks or so with chicken pox. I literally screamed, in a more-annoying-than-Sue-as-a-Cheerio attitude, "welcome back, Freddie!" and I think I annoyed everyone in the classroom. It wasn't really a good feeling.

Dead air in a conversation can mean many things. Possibly, both sides are getting some much-needed down time, a given since she was calming her nerves for an interview, and I still had half a rice bowl to eat. Possibly, one or the other is thinking about what to say, something understandable especially in a time when people tend to say the worst things at the worst time. Worse, it's a sign that things are going down the pan. Oh damn it, awkward silence. We're both not having fun. She's not having fun. We can still do something. Let's do something! I attempt to say something, but I made the mistake of pointing out my awkwardness and the fact that we've been silent for ten seconds or so. It didn't help. I ended up trying my best not to mind the silence, keeping my composure even if it really bothered me.

"Alam mo naman noon, ako yung madaldal." Close, but no cigar.

Well, there's really no reason to be awkward, but I was just so awkward. Sure, the fact that Ning and I never really talked until that day - both graduates, both wondering what to do next - just made things worse. But there was this meet-up with Piyar, and this meet-up with Ariane, and this meet-up with Monica, and the many meet-ups with Valerie, and with each passing day I feel more and more awkward. I feel incapable of carrying a conversation, one that's not one-sided and blabbering, one that actually makes sense. But the conversations I had in college we barely balanced and cohesive. What makes me so demanding right now? Is it all this chaos? is it the feeling that if I improve my social skills, which have long been proven to be too aggressive (hello you) and too pointless (hello you), my life will change? I don't really have control of it, unfortunately. No amount of practice will change my life.

Still, I somehow survived. I spent more than a couple of hundred bucks, the extra being service charge, a given. I managed to learn a few things about her, and I think she learned a few new things about me, even if my life is pretty much (and regrettably so, now we're talking about careers) an open book. There were a few things that kept the chat going, even if the idea of me wondering about what she meant by sleepwear in a Twitter conversation a few days before is uncomfortable in hindsight. And, I have to learn to appreciate all these awkward conversations, because it's better than the idea of having to deal with, well, you know.

She took a taxi back to the building, never mind that I can just walk it. Then again, she's wearing heels. It's weird seeing her catch up with me height-wise. Even weirder, the interview was moved to the next day, and all she had to do was get her ID and go home, do stuff. I just walked back to the office; the walk wasn't as long as it felt an hour ago.

"I forgot to say thanks!" she texted me, minutes later. I was at the office by then.

"And I forgot to say good luck!" I answered back.

GMA dared, the headline said. Get Ampatuans.

I've already heard quite a lot about the Maguindanao massacre since the news first broke on Monday morning. I was at work, supposedly disconnected from the world, but I was on Twitter too, and that's how I first learned of the disappearances. Ten hours later, the worst were confirmed, when the cars were found, when the bodies were found, one after the other, day after day.

That's how I also realized the possibly bigger implications of the crime, whose name is still being debated on. Maguindanao massacre? One of the poorest provinces in the country? Makes sense. Ampatuan massacre? Possibly, with the Ampatuans dominant in the region's politics, with two of its members occupying powerful positions in local governments. "Political warlords," they are called. Private armies at their disposal. Possibly, the hundred people who blocked the convoy of Esmael Mangandadatu's supporters. Possibly the police, God forbid the military.

The details, I don't know. But the connections, I think I do.

I have encountered the Ampatuans before, and not just when I was in Maguindanao earlier this year. Close allies of the administration, close allies of the President, the name was somehow dragged into the issue of the Garci tapes. They delivered a huge number of votes in the province. Some say the other serious candidates got no votes at all. The results were, of course, hotly contested, possibly up to now, in the minds of voters who believe President Arroyo is sitting in a chair that is not hers. For the rest, there isn't a choice.

Many entities, both here and across the world, have described the massacre as the worst day in media killings. 13 journalists killed, and surely that's not just it. One day. One event. One place. All in a country where desaparecidos remain desaparecidos, where murdered journalists remain statistics rather than solved cases. A culture of impunity, they say, have permeated the country. Of nobody caring, or actually allowing it.

And now, the quotes. "What kind of animals are these killers?" "This is a senseless slaughter." "I have called on the party to take the decisive step to initiate expulsion proceedings against them." "This is a supreme act of inhumanity that is a blight on our nation."

And I fear they will just remain quotes.

"Kasi," I told my mom when I got home, "allies sila. Hindi nila pwedeng galawin 'yan kasi kung may mangyari sila rin ang yari. Mawawala lahat ng boto nila. Saka tignan mo, they said the same things before with smaller instances, with Joe Burgos, at anong nangyari?"

"Alam mo," she just replied, "kaysa ma-frustrate ka pa sa kakaisip niyan, tumahimik ka na lang. Wala ka namang magagawa, eh." She's always said that, as long as it's political and it's me analyzing it.

"Are you actually promoting impunity?"

"So you aren't out yet? Ah, fine."

"Yep. Blogging."

"What, you are or you are not? I just got in an elevator..."

"I am still at the office. Leaving around seven."

"Oh. No chance, then. I shall wait. But not a la Cinema Paradiso. Di ko kaya yun."

"You going home na?"

"I leave at six. You leave at seven always? I can delay but I walk fast."

"I normally leave at, like, ten."

"Oh, right, right, your work. So you come early?"

"If you consider ten early."

"No, I don't. We will never cross paths, and I'm being bitterly selfish."

"What? Sorry."

"Nothing. Post-work daze. My apologies."

"S'alright!"

"So, birthday girl. 21. First as an employee. What now?"

"I'm hungry and I'm going to TriNoma."

"What exactly do you do anyway?"

"Writer. And I do lots of other stuff, hence the title 'slasher' here at Ideal Minds."

"Ah, Ideal Minds. Ooh. Wala nang comment."

"Bakit?"

"Wala lang. Ishcomplicated."

"Tell me."

"I just feel stuck. Worst reason. People. Can't get alone. Won't act like I exist. Person, actually. Told you it's complicated."

"What does it have to do with where I work?"

"Nah. I just have comparisons. Everybody else is, uh, happy, ish."

"Why don't you look for another job?"

"Ah, that's where the stuck part comes in. Switch topics."

"You can choose to not be stuck. You're a good writer. Don't limit yourself."

"I won't ruin your birthday."

At this point, the message stream trails off. She sends another message before I send that message.

"Sorry. I realize that was fucking preachy."

I answered that one.

"That's why I'm avoiding the topic. Everybody is preaching but nobody gets it."

Her response to the previous thread just came in.

"You aren't, but ayun. Don't be afraid to take a risk."

I decided to wait for a response to the second thread. But it was half past seven, and she's probably in a train, or probably in a restaurant, being, uh, happy, ish. It's her birthday, after all.

Two phone-related bits came on the mail yesterday. The first was my bill, which apparently ballooned 300% (do I have my math right?) after all of the text messages I sent when I was in Singapore. That'd be a thousand bucks for a month's use. The second was a new SIM card.

That, honestly, was unexpected. I obviously still have a working SIM card, and the only time they've been replaced was when my phone got stolen. But I've been using this particular number for, I'm guessing, five years already. It's a corporate account, which is why I've been paying half my supposed phone bill for the past few months or so. Loyalty privileges, they say. So I figured, the new SIM card is a loyalty privilege, although the letter accompanying it was suggesting it was a necessary upgrade.

Perhaps. 780 contacts? More messages than ever? Cool, I would say, but I've been using phone memory for both my contacts and my messages. Whatever's left on my current SIM card is a remnant of whatever happened, let me check, two years ago. But I'm a sentimental git, the sort who gets extremely amazed at how much things change in a short time, and upon seeing the messages that I've forgotten about, I'm a little smitten at how far we've gone. Or, better yet, how much better those days were.

"And earlier you said she was irrelevant?" Issa asked. I think we were talking about Sarah back then. "Riiight, dude." 5 February 2007.

"Oh well," Katia said. "You should know you'd miss those after college days." But I've never been to University Night and I never missed them. 18 February 2007.

"Hey guys, sorry to bug you," Ana asked, "but are any of you still in school? I just finished this seminar in La Salle and I still have a few hours before I get picked up." We didn't meet. We never met. 23 February 2007.

"Are you in school na?" Nadia asked. "Can you please meet me in South Gate to help carry the carpet?" I think it's for some Student Council thing. Our college's silver anniversary, I think. A red carpet. "It's huge." 26 February 2007.

"Ako nga yun!" Kor said, the day I saw her on a bus. On the television. In a movie. As Bridgitte in Cedie. "Anong channel?" 4 April 2007.

"Nakatulong ba ako?" Kim asked, about what, I can't really remember. "Yehey! Nakatulong ako! No problem. Ako nga, lagi kitang ginugulo, eh." 10 April 2007.

"I actually envy you for trying out," Ariane said. "I've been wanting to do that this summer pero I'm just either busy or confused." The text message was too long and it's been cut, but she was referring to the day I (regrettably now) became friends with the shiny happy DJ. 29 April 2007.

"My god! So you were listening the whole time?" Jem asked. I wasn't, because I didn't know she was on that day. "Or you just heard me with Christi? About your request... can't anymore 'coz I just got out of the booth. On my way to Mini Stop." 19 May 2007.

"I read it," Chex said. "I just wanted to make sure. Gosh, you're tall! I'm five-seven." I never honestly noticed. 21 May 2007.

"I hope the shirt fits you!" It was a Superman shirt, and it was Kimmy wishing me well. Direct address programs for television production class. 2 June 2007.

"It doesn't matter," Jan said. "At least we got it right." I did get it right. "Spurs win!" 15 June 2007.

"I saw the posters," Reena said. "Nice." They were environmental advocacy posters, I think. "San ko to pi-print?" 21 June 2007.

"But we don't have to bring the actual set yet though, right?" Misha asked. "I mean they are just proposals and stuff?" Yes, Misha, for we've yet to discuss the set for that talk show. 26 June 2007.

"I want balloons all over the floor," Kimmy eventually said. "At least ten." 28 June 2007. It worked.

I'm writing them down because, maybe tomorrow, definitely within the month, I'll take that new SIM and activate it. Everything in my current SIM will be inaccessible, simply because it would cease to work. And I told you, I'm a sentimental git. But something about these old messages make me giddy, unlike the messages I have right now, where conversations about the usual stuff merely invoke frayed nerves.

I don't have anything else to do with that new card, but the letter states I can avail of a full day of unlimited calls to any other phone within my network. Useless, because I don't call anyone, nor I have a reason to call anyone anymore. Wait a minute. That number's in the same network as I am...

The sucky thing with online friends is, after a couple of years or so, you'll cease being their friend. I'm looking at twenty people on my list right now, some of which I've met as far back as four years ago. Since then, I've only kept consistent contact with a few of them.

Let's be clear with that, though. I've deleted some people that are not in the list of twenty, when it was certain the conversations weren't going to last for more than a week. Some of the twenty, I've met personally. I just moved two named to the "friends" list, so that's a list of eighteen. Some of the eighteen are people who I knew through people I actually met - say, Daniel's connected to Ella, or Erik's connected to Valerie. Some of the remaining sixteen have firmly entrenched themselves into the psyche that you can, more or less, call them friends, although I'm not sure how Alyssa sees me.

But the thing with online friends is, after a couple of years or so, both of you will realize that it won't go anywhere, and you both decide to spend time with your real-life friends. I have, after all, deleted around five on the list, not to mention the sixteen people collectively known as the shiny happy people. But I don't really have many real-life friends to speak of. Maybe it's the discontent with where I am right now, or maybe it's the fact that all I have are connections rather and friendships, and that means I still get to see all the stuff they do, and obviously, I don't.

It's not really a mistake of mine, anchoring everything on this. It's just something I can't wrap my finger around.

And I understand that they have lives to run. Last I heard, Katia's running the same gas station I mentioned a few months back. Last I heard, Issa's working a few buildings away from me, and oddly, even if I have her phone number, I haven't invited her to lunch, thinking she will be too busy and, maybe, not want to have me around. More or less, this is me being paranoid, but again, it's something I can't wrap my finger around. How many years of conversations does it take for people to get tired of each other? Why the double standard? And why do we have to give up secrets, both sides?

One of them, I had a crush on. I taked with for the most part of two years, interrupted by commitments and, I don't know, life, perhaps. I poked fun at everything and she took it in stride. But I invited her to coffee and she flatly refused it. (That should make who I'm referring to very obvious, especially if you've been reading this religiously.) I should have seen it coming, but it still sucks realizing that she's removed you from her friends list, and you don't get to see her anywhere anymore. "You list [name of person] as a friend," the web page will say.

Unlike real ones, which take an argument to cut off everything, in the case of online friends, it takes only a click on a button. Delete friend. Block person. I do the same things, too, but of course it'll hurt if it's you on the receiving end - or maybe because she was a crush, an in-between, someone I never committed to but someone I never stopped thinking of. And I, I cannot wrap my finger around it.

No, I'm not complaining about me not being able to write as many blog entries as I should. One, it's the November sweeps, and I find myself a bit busier than usual. Two, I came from Singapore, so I have a little bit more to work on, although thankfully it's all finished. Three, I actually have a lot of things to write about, and I've gone as far as outlining my thoughts on paper.

The catch, however, is this: I shouldn't write about those ideas just yet, because there are more pressing matters at hand. And that's where the problem is. "I want to write a blog entry but I just can't," I wrote on Twitter. I knew I had to write something but I just couldn't. It's nothing really urgent, but it's one of those times when certain things around you trigger certain things inside you, and your brain flicks a switch and tells you to go write something. I managed at some point, but not today. "Unfortunately," I eventually told Stella, "we are not encouraged to express ourselves, because it will 'hurt other people'."

There was, after all, some hesitation on my part to put those things into words. Part was, admittedly, because I couldn't articulate what I had in my head. But it's also because I've written so many things that way before, and always, the pay-off is pretty severe: things get cut off, people get cut off, and you've made more damage when you try explaining yourself, or just letting out. "But it's your blog," Icka once told me, after reading one of my angrier blog entries, when I expressed anxiety over my intended subjects reading it and lashing back. More or less, she said, nobody should care about what I write on my public private space, because it is my private space, however public it may be.

Yes, but nobody wants to get hurt, too. Not that I care. At the moment all I could care about is not hurting myself, not hurting myself further, not after all of this. The least I could get, then, for my quest towards self-preservation, or whatever amounts to it, is the understanding that I'm saying what I'm saying because I have to. But people will come to me and say, "huwag mo ngang sabihin yan, kasi malay mo, mali ka, makasakit ka pa ng iba," but since when did that matter? It happens anyway. People find out about what I say and get hurt, and retaliate, whatever means they retaliate. "Tumahimik ka na lang," they would all go, "or else mapapatay ka pa." So what, keep it all inside and let it destroy you? What do you really want?

Whatever I have outlined, they're just observations that make me look, well, observant, someone who can write a book about all these things, and probably sell. None of it are the frustratingly angry stuff. I can't refute a friend's allegation that unfollowing me on Twitter because they're "stalking" someone does not have a dent on our friendship, because heck, your friend unfollowed me on Twitter because she didn't like what I said, and we've not talked since.

And I'm not allowed to say that I won't apologize to her for being such a smug bitch, because I thought she was not being supportive when I'm doing the one thing she wants me to do, because it'll chip away from her successful stance, whatever.

And I'm not welcome to write about my insecurities seeing all of my "friends" hang out with their real friends, leave me aside, partly because they don't need me anymore, because I didn't do anything, and then they'd go have fun and dismiss anything and everything I do to get their favors, if that even works.

And I'm not supposed to say that I felt hurt, by seeing those people laugh when I struggled to say what I say, when I felt that they were disrespecting me openly, which shatters an illusion that I long know is not true.

And I'm not permitted to say something that I'm not sure about, but I know I'm pretty sure of for the past few weeks now. I'm only allowed to let it go but you won't let me go. I'm not allowed to say names, and all I can write is something along the lines of "this adversarial relationship has gone below civil." Something obscure, something that is not enough. Because nothing can equal what I'm feeling right now, and nothing can equal the things I want to let out, but nothing can equal the opposition from everybody, preventing me to say what I want to say, because it will hurt people, and because it will affect me badly in the end. Myself included.

One of the things I like about my two trips to Singapore so far is the breakfast buffet.

It is a stark difference, after all, to breakfast during my trip to Hong Kong. The "inclusive breakfast" with the hotel reservation apparently meant loads of gift certificates to McDonald's. It's exciting at first, since their Big Breakfast includes muffins (before it became an option in the Philippines) and you can also buy a cup of corn alongside. Four mornings of McDonald's isn't really what you call a culinary adventure, after all.

Then again, Singaporean breakfast buffets isn't exactly a culinary adventure, either. There are items that my first trip last year and the trip I'm currently doing right now have in common: hash browns, fried noodles, fruit platters, soya milk, a chef who does all the omelettes. But it's a good chance to try out the things that I don't really find back home. I fell in love with muesli last year. Yesterday, I realized that poached eggs are pretty greasy. And feta cheese makes me feel slightly luxurious even if it's a bit too salty for my tastes.

I didn't want to stuff myself during breakfast, especially since I'm alone for parts of the trip, and I figured I'll give myself a chance to try out as much Singaporean cuisine as possible. (That is the point, right?) So, yesterday, before I picked up a plate, I scanned the buffets and made a mental note of what's on offer. The pastries on Thursday, the omelette on Friday, the muesli on Saturday. That kind of thing.

So you can imagine my frustration when I got down to breakfast today and realized I won't enjoy it that much.

No, it's not the chefs' fault. It can't be mine either, since I always find something enjoyable about my food, unless it's absolutely repulsive. I can blame it on eating alone, and the over-efficiency of the staff at the Sheraton Towers.

I'm travelling with my dad, who's here on a business trip. My mom was supposed to go with him, but it ended up being me on the plane Wednesday morning. Today, he was out early for a long series of meetings, and to boot, I overslept, so I woke up before eight alone in the hotel room. He told me anyway that I'll be eating breakfast alone today, and I was a bit worried that if he gets breakfast before me, I wouldn't be able to eat, even if there are two meals per morning with our room. I didn't need to worry, though: I got myself a seat, asked for coffee, and began eating a croissant before heading to the serious stuff.

I left for the omelette and grabbed myself some fried noodles for a change. I returned and realized my half-empty coffee and my copy of The Straits Times disappeared from my table. Apparently the staff went in and cleaned my table while I was out having an omelette done. These guys are so quick. Yesterday I saw one grab an empty plate from a patron just as the poor guy is putting the last bite of whatever it is he was eating in his mouth. So much for being alert. No need to worry: I went back to the table and grabbed myself a glass of apple juice, another one of those things that I started to appreciate upon landing here, apart from grilled tomatoes and chilis on everything. And that newspaper was a hotel copy: the one they delivered to my room was, well, in my room.

Minutes later, I left to refill my glass, this time with water. I got back and saw one of the staff cleaning up my table - and the odd part is, I'm not yet done with my food! I think I had half a sausage and some noodles left on my plate. "I'm not yet done!" I told the girl, and she apologized, realizing I'm not yet done. She left taking my omelette, which was far from consumed. So much for scheduling.

Frustrated, I got back to the buffet table, grabbing some bacon and a couple more sausages. I returned to see my glass of water, barely consumed, gone from the table - as well as my cutlery, my placemat, and the salt and pepper shakers. I got another apology from the staff, and I took the unused plate from the other side of the table - it was for two, after all. I think the Indian guys beside me were amused at my predicament. I left my camera at the table, thinking it'll tell the staff that someone's still eating.

I got back to the buffet table to grab some dim sum, and I returned to see my utensils gone again. My new glass of water was gone, too. I left to get yet another glass, and returned, and I was relieved they didn't pick up the plate, too. Then again, it was still a full plate. Well, more of a nobody-has-touched-it-yet plate. And my camera wasn't gone, either. I just finished my breakfast, went back up my room to plan my walk across Orchard after lunch, and got down to write this blog.

Is it because they think I'm done eating? Maybe, but my plate isn't done yet. Then again, many others leave their plates half-empty when they're full, and nothing of this sort happens. Then again, I'm in a rich country, one that has a bit more of a margin when it comes to unfinished stuff. Then again, the price of mutton is rising, and you can't just throw mutton sausages away. Whatever.

I coughed on my way back up. The dim sum got its revenge. And probably the staff, too, because I found the whole scenario amusing enough to warrant a blog entry. Nobody will get the message, though.