Me saying that this decade saw a hell lot of change would be an exaggeration.

Because, by nature, it will being a hell lot of change. Eight years ago, I graduated from elementary school, entered high school, and moved after seeing the worst of human nature. Four years ago I graduated from high school, entered college, and stayed after convincing myself that this is just me going through the motions of life in a years-long delay. Last year I graduated from college, entered the workforce, and... let's just leave it at that. My point is, this decade has been home to lots of change because that's what's written on the road map. That, and ten years is a really long time.

And then there's the fact that there's this odd debate on when exactly does the new decade begin. 2010? Commonly-accepted knowledge, also factoring in the fact that we all celebrated the dawn of the new millennium in 2000, or as some believe, a whole year early.

Looking back on the past ten years, however, was, to say the least, quite exhilarating. Ten years ago I was this fairly fat boy, fairly popular and fairly confident. I'll stop there, because I've since learned (but refused to acknowledge, except in intermittent streaks of reciprocity) that nobody wants to read about man's descent towards cynicism, which I certainly took over the past decade. You can say it's part of the road map. I can't stay idealistic, after all.

Maybe that's a snag in a decade where we'll all supposed to change, and perhaps more importantly, solidify our beliefs for perusal over the remainder of our lives. The teen years, oh! (Bad attempt at romanticism, that one.) The years when we dealt with both our hormones and the way we coordinated that and our external functions. You can't go on overdrive, and you can't stay silent, else you'll end up banged all over the room and bleeding. It's us looking for acceptance, and trying new things, and perhaps more often than not, failing. Thinking of that, the decade's obviously a heavy one.

That, or I haven't seen anything worth revisiting over the past year, a year of disconnection and discombobulation. Friends go, or forget you exist. New ones refuse the title, and proceed to have fun. Everything implodes. Easily forgotten is the fact that, in the first place, these things wouldn't have happened if nobody became your friend in your first place. Still, it's easier to throw invectives around. You have to. It's the new year. Noise to keep away the bad spirits, although they sometimes attract the bad vibes, too.

As for the next ten, well, I won't leave it all to luck. At least I'll try not to.

I'm writing this one from Cebu. I convinced myself that I had to write this entry.

There's a Starbucks right across my hotel. I may be finished with the seventeen stickers, but the family thought we'd all have a sip before going back up to the hotel. I was the one who had to order all five drinks and three desserts. I was amused.

Now, I perfectly understand that the folks here in Cebu speak pretty good English. Either that, or Cebuano - this province, after all, has resisted Filipino because it doesn't represent them at all, if I remember the drift right. You speak to them in the national language and they're most likely to answer in English.

The barista I was talking to, well, spoke perfect English - too perfect English, in fact. The shops across our hotel also served as home to a handful of call centers - accent training, morning nightlife and all - and I can't help but wonder if the barista serving me last night trained with those above her at one point. "One toowl dahk cherry mow-cha frahp," she'd go to the other barista, who had the misfortune of working the espresso machine in a surprisingly frantic Sunday night.

The other barista also spoke the very same way. "Your lah-tey's on the way," she told me, as I took my waffle and my sister's cake slice back to our table.

So, of course, I had to give my order in straight, conference call-style English. When I still had stickers to fill, I only said "isang tall dark cherry mocha frap," or something along those lines. And "salamat" too. Here, it had to be a long, slightly cheesy "thaaanks!"

"Here's your wah-drrr, Nick," the other barista said, taking the liberty of shortening down my nickname, perhaps because I ordered a bit too much - five drinks, three desserts, trouble - and because they almost called me Miko.

"Thaaanks!" I went, getting two glasses of water to bring the caffeine down.

Just as that happened, someone else came to the counter, asking for the same thing. "Woterrr plis."

Perhaps thankfully, the third spoke a bit more normally, as she chuckled and virtually gave me consent to take that photograph. And the security guard - who almost always has to moonlight as a guy who cleans up the tables - spoke in Cebuano, too.

I didn't know what to get amazed at. There's the disparity, the way Cebu seems totally different from the rest of the Philippines, or at least the places I've been in - middle of Luzon, tip of the country, Maguindanao - and even the radio stations, with reggae programming on weekends and, in some cases, programming that I'd die to do in Manila.

And there's the fact that the baristas got the drinks right, but the stickers wrong. I ordered a dark cherry mocha frap. My mom should get one sticker on the left side of the booklet. She instead got five on the right. Welcome to the most frazzled Starbucks branch I've ever seen.

I almost forgot to do this, to be honest. Then again, I'm a sucker for tradition, and like the past three years, I'm doing it again: a blog entry chronicling my Christmas group message, sent to a handful of people, and their responses to me, which are usually either a group message, a personalized reply, or the most annoying of answers, "who's this?"

The only difference this time? I'm much more cynical. Happy holidays! No dedications, no extras. Just think that you getting this from me says a lot. I figured I'll only send the message to people who absolutely mattered over the past year - you know, the people who didn't spend their lives annoying me by pretending I don't exist. I would go "you matter this year" but that's cheesy. So, no, she's not on this list like last time. Although that is, of course, a totally different story altogether.

Well, I added a handful of people who I haven't heard from in ages, too. Life will, obviously, get in the way. The message was written in my head in the middle of last-minute shopping last night, and sent to (only!) 59 people first thing in the morning. The results are, well, what I honestly expected.

From Carmel Puertollano: Who's this? I think she just woke up. No punctuation, even. First one, first strike, not good.

From Drea Dizon: Haha. Merry Christmas, Niko!

From Redg de Vera: Hey! Sorry, I changed phones. Who's this, please? To his credit, there's a sad emoticon on the message, which I won't obviously put here.

From Redg de Vera, a few minutes later: Hey, Niko! Sorry, changed phones, eh... hehe! Happy holidays!

From Sars San Juan: Merry christmas. Dad and I go to hospital. Update kita. Doesn't really sound good, so I wish whoever needs to get well actually gets well.

From Valerie del Castillo: Good morning and the sincerest thanks! Happy holidays to you and your family! See ya next year. I'm excited about next year. I just feel like it's gonna be great for all of us. Group message? Doesn't really read like it.

From Valerie del Castillo, minutes later: By the way, where's that Allison review? I'm writing it after this, miss.

From Monica Escalona: Sorry! Who's this? Not again...

From Jill Cruz: Thanks, Niko! Merry Christmas.

From Mae Ong: Hey Niko! Merry Christmas! Long time! Yep, long time... nine months?

From Christina Kee: Thanks, lolo! Merry Christmas to you and your family! God bless!

From Anna Abola: Happy holidaaaays! Have a blessed Christmas!

From Ning Hilario: Thanks, Niko. By the way, it's her birthday today, too, so she got an extra message after everybody else got theirs.

From Kimmy de Leon: Who's this? Happy holidays to you, too! Four before lunch? Not a good sign. Ironically, we often talk on Twitter! What, is that website the new standard?

From Kimmy de Leon, a few minutes later: Niko? Yes, Niko. And then I realize she knows more than one. I'm the annoying Niko, by the way.

From Kimmy de Leon, a few more minutes later: Oh! Sorry, Niko! I shall save this number. Merry Christmas!

From Adette Razon: And cheesy is definitely not you. Happy holidays, Niko!

From Arlene Amante: Thanks, Niko! What's with the thank you messages? Just last year I always get my greeting back. I guess everyone's just being austere - carolers late in the game, no decorations in every home, ours included...

From Jennifer Ngo: Who's this? Lost all my contacts, eh.

From Rochelle Chioa: Merry Christmas, Nico!

From Rochelle Chioa, shortly after: Niko pala. Sorry. Haha. Cough and cold is messing up with my brain. So drowsy... Well, at least you know me. Or at least still have my number.

From Jennifer Ngo, a few minutes later: Thanks!

And that's where the cut-off ends. That's 15 out of 59 - still not a good ratio, but I guess I'm being too demanding. Besides, this year is, like the last, a little different. Most of the people I would be sending messages to have left the country - so, to Jackie, Jason, Lau, Marcia and Nicole, here's a bit of home: maligayang Pasko sa inyo! And to the rest of you, those who I forgot (admittedly) or have yet to send their group messages against network traffic or decided to treat me with utter indifference, well, you know what I'm going to say. Happy holidays, and here's to the next decade!

Now, if I can only stop thinking about television. The Seattle folks specifically said so.

I'm almost finished with my Christmas shopping. Almost, I insist. Sure, I've bought a gift for everybody I'm buying a gift for, but my personal shopping list isn't complete yet - and no, I'm not counting Allison Iraheta's debut album. It's this time of year when I, like perhaps everybody else, update my wardrobe, and so far I've bought a pair of jeans (that I haven't altered yet), two shirts and a pair of shoes, although it's annoying to think that Jack Purcells are only available up to a size ten, or so I think.

Now, the one thing I have yet to buy is a collared shirt. It's been a priority since I began working: it looks absolutely smart (especially in a world where the tee takes priority) and it somehow fits my current style philosophy, which is "look decent while throwing everything in the sink". (Actually, I don't have one. I just choose what looks good for me, and nobody has yet to stage a fashion intervention. Do I really need one?) Now, I haven't had time to shop for that, either because I've been buying gifts, or I've been too sleepy, an unusual side effect of daily Starbucks intake.

I've been having a hard time looking for one. I was at Rustan's earlier - then again, why am I looking there? Unless, of course, I plan to buy myself an expensive collared top - which I can do, if I had the guts to go for it. So, to the rest of the Shang, then, although it being a relatively upscale mall, there really is nothing for me there.

Rule number one: Do not go shopping for clothes at the Shang, or at any other upscale mall, for that matter.

Then again, I did find something. There's a Bench store at the fifth floor, and there's a Human store right beside it. Surely there's something I can afford there, right? Collared shirts for under P500? Kewl! The problem is, none of those fit me - and they're not the discounted items. I'm not exactly the fittest man on the planet - I have a fairly prominent belly, although I haven't been drinking beer - and anything that isn't straight anything is bound to look bad on me. Wider-than-usual outfits will make me look shaggy. Slimmer-than-usual outfits? Do you want my nipples poking out? Surely you'll throw up if you realize I'm not female.

What makes it more unfortunate is, I found something that I really like. I found this brown and purple shirt at Human. It should fit me because it's a large, but it's label is a turn-off: "slim fit". I still tried it on, but it pokes badly, and they don't have an extra large one at stock. And no, I haven't checked out the one I like at Bench. "Vintage tee. Slim fit." No, I don't think my sort are allowed to look like Enchong Dee. And to think beauty products are now starting to say, "girls, it's okay if you're fat." If you're a guy, you've got to work out, else you're hopeless.

Rule number two: Guys are not allowed to be insecure about themselves.

I spent my afternoon shopping. A good distraction, I must mention, from the Christmas party somewhere out there - I didn't attend because I had lots of Survivor work to do, although I ended up finishing before three, and the office closes at three, and after hearing stuff like "ikaw lang naman ang dahilan kung bakit kami pupunta", I might as well make the most of the idle time between then and the time the shuttles are available. (That, and I couldn't meet Monica because she's wrapping gifts at work.) Obviously, I wasn't successful, which is why I'm writing stuff now from some half-dumpy Internet cafe at Starmall, which is so far from upscale from the mall across it. I wouldn't shop here because, well, I have this mindset that I won't find anything here that would actually fit my non-existent style philosophy, never mind that there's actually a Human branch right here. Slim fit? No, thanks.

If I spend my life dodging social engagements because I know, for a fact, that nobody will bother engaging with me socially, then why do I bother looking good in the first place? Oh, right, adulation from relatives. "Ang galing mong pumorma" from a distant relative will make me swoon because I don't really try... until I see someone who does try. Remember, there's the second rule for that. Guys are not allowed to be insecure about themselves.

I do not mean to offend, but is this the reason why gay people are abound nowadays?

I remember meeting this guy. Oh, he's just perfect. I met him during this gig. Wasn't really well-attended, although I figure it's because the band wasn't really that well-known. Understandably, the venue was small. He was wondering why the venue was so small. Figured they'd go on to great things, thinks the band better get used to performing for more people. I couldn't agree with him more.

He's fit, he's nice, he's funny. We got along quite well. Not really like we've known each other for ages, but there is something in common. He likes the things I like and we can talk about anything, even the things we don't like, endlessly. And did I tell you he's hot?

So, after the gig, we set off for a few drinks, hailed a cab, and the next thing we knew, we were making out on the back seat...

Oh, oh, oh, oh, please. What did I tell you about telling me stories like this? I told you, my imagination's too vivid for my own good. Tell me something and I'll visualize it in my head. That's how my mind works. Right now I'm imagining him groping you, and you taking your clothes off, and him unhooking your bra.

We weren't naked. We were just kissing, that's all.

I can still imagine things.

Imagine someone else. Another guy in his place. Another girl in my place.

I can still imagine things.

Oh, stop it.

Thanks to the American stereotype of the religious kind, I realized, perhaps belatedly, that the Philippines is a relatively conservative country. I don't know how exactly this connects with the thought I have right now, but I guess it's got something to do with the way we go around sex. In the extreme, it's limited to bedrooms, within the confines of marriage, and with one person. (With all this talk of marriage, it's inevitable that my mind will pace towards the honeymoon. One, we are growing old. Two, I am such a pervert.) Maybe I am naïve, or in my own words, deprived, but the idea of people jumping head first into baseball metaphors gets me a little, I don't know, complicated.

But it shouldn't be that way. I'm in that prime demographic! I pick up magazines for the photographs rather than the words. I'd like to think I can appreciate the aesthetics of the soda bottle. It's not the size, although sometimes size is daunting; it's proportion that matters more. Heck, some know I have a more, uhh, carnal side. "You've been checking her out?" "Yes, I'm afraid so, and I noticed her butt is quite big." It should come naturally, but it all feels wrong.

We did it in the back of a car. It was two in the morning. I don't know. We both felt hot, and that leads to sex.

One, that's somebody else. Two, that's an actual story. Three, I don't know how the heck I get these people to tell me these things. While my imagination drives me crazy, I treat this whole thing matter-of-factly, the way they do. It happens in life, yes. It's common, maybe, I don't know.

So, uhh, how does it feel?

It feels great. What's gotten into you?

Awkward.

During these testing times I wonder why some people have to resort to taking their clothes off to feel great. Not that I don't know how they define great. I am in that demographic. And you shouldn't know these things. Anyway, it's a fleeting moment. Just a fleeting moment. Whether you hit a home run or a foul ball, it's just a fleeting moment. After that, what? As much as I want to accept that it's a normal thing, the thought still makes me cringe - and yet it's thrilling enough to compel me to consider Rachel and Puck's one-episode stand as a "great" moment, although it was actually a suggestion.

I'll probably sound gay here, or at least an idealistic wussy who can't get started on anything, but for folks like us who look for something beyond a screw - maybe it's more a privilege than a prerequisite, I don't know - feeling great isn't just enough. I figure, whenever I say I am deprived, it's got nothing to do with sex.

If Charles Darwin is to be believed, we are who we are right now because we survived the things the world threw at us. Natural selection, yes. Creatures with lots of fur may survive a terrible cold spell, but will probably drop dead at the first sign of a heat wave. We don't have gills, but fish do. We swim but need oxygen. They jump around on land until they become our food.

It's a very random thought considering I wasn't listening to a science podcast on my way home earlier. What I was listening to is Wiretap, this Canadian radio show that's not exactly comedy, or at least how most of us define it. Jonathan Goldstein, after all, is a humorist, and me listening to a humorist and actually laughing at his stories means I'm a sad, sad man - but that's not what I'm here for. Where were we? Not exactly comedy. All right.

The past few weeks they've been airing short stories from this collection. It's one that I probably won't be able to buy, but I don't plan on buying it anyway, because it invokes existential thoughts, and they always keep me up at night. More of questions about life, really, peppered by ideas that we are just experiments by a bunch of organisms, ideas, whatever, perched atop asteroids. Tonight, the voiceover said, our universe's billion-year existence is because we're an experiment that's way behind deadline and way over budget. They can't figure out what makes us stick together and what makes us let go so quickly. "They couldn't understand what we humans refer to as love," the voiceover poignantly concluded. I wanted to hit my head on the vehicle's window.

Yes, I did end up thinking about natural selection.

I remember when I was a kid. There was this particular template we had to adhere to at such a young age. Mine was influenced by movies on television. Elementary, then high school, then college, then a barkada, then a girlfriend, then marriage. It had to be in that order. Nothing should change. Nothing should overlap. The idea is, we're born into this world thinking that our very goal is to settle down and have children, and maybe watch them settle down and have children. Well, there's working, but only after you're married. It just happens. Naïve, really, but we were pre-configured to go about things that way.

At this rate, I'm not supposed to survive. The story earlier mentioned people who look for their "adhesion" - that's what they call it - and people who don't want to. People who just chance upon it. People who cut it off altogether. I'm the old-fashioned sort, perhaps, the sort whose main purpose, as much as I try to steer myself towards a different direction, is to find that adhesion. The very point of happiness. That's what I think. Elementary crushes treated more like an adventure novel rather than a series of life-or-death challenges. Naïve, still. And then you meet people whose main purpose in life is to stay away from anything that resembles a deep connection, because it will hurt them, and they have seen the light, and they are preparing themselves in case a war breaks down. They will survive. My sort won't.

That mindset surely will spread, the way it's already spreading across my generation, from one-night stands to being one step shy of the holy orders. No, I can do this on my own, and I don't need anyone else. And yes, this will lead us to survive the possible effects of food shortages and air pollution and whatever else that overpopulation brings. Maybe they're just watching out for themselves, because nobody wants to get hurt, badly hurt, but it takes more than conviction to stick with it. I said I won't marry precisely because they said they won't, and I'm still here, looking.

Their sort will multiply by asexual reproduction, probably. My sort will die alone, but not without trying, and that should be tragic... unless that mindset's been changed, too. Natural selection. Damn it, Charles.

One of the things I hate about myself is my inability to decide, and to stick with that decision. I guess it's my nature to be very fickle and very impulsive. I just can't stick with things. I'll want one thing and the next hour I won't. I'll prefer one thing and the next hour I'll hate it. And you know how most people are with those who can't make up their minds. It doesn't really look good.

So, to compensate, lately I've been sticking with the decisions I've made. If before my feelings change every time circumstances change, this time I'm sticking with them regardless of whether time and space has moved things around, rendering everything I've decided on before moot. I can't do one thing that will change my life? I'll do something much more shallow, and stick with it. I can't let go of someone? I'll easily let go of someone else. It gives me a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, the feeling that I can do anything I set my mind into.

Of course, there are problems. I'll still look bad, if not worse. One, this means I'm not good at prioritizing. Why set your mind towards something that wouldn't really change your life? Why spend thousands of pesos on something that you wouldn't touch after six days, rather than save the money and buy yourself something that you'll find useful forever, or at least for a while? Why devote all your energy to getting rid of something you're actually better off with, and instead dedicate yourself to pursuing something that wouldn't help you at all?

Two, this means I can easily ditch things once I see something that I think will make me happy. A paradox, you could say, that someone who's literally begged to have friends around will literally take them for granted when the time actually comes. They're here, but you'd rather try making friends with the new girl who isn't any interested in you. She probably hates you, for all you know. And you're sticking with it because you'll feel fulfilled when you succeed. You've done something right. Sure, you're badly bruised and more isolated by those efforts.

I have terrible self-esteem issues. I've always felt that whatever I do always fails because I never set my mind to it. Must be my built-in easily-distracted nature. That, or everybody else around me say that I should man up with the consequences of everything I decided to do before. You pushed them away, so live by yourself and stop moping! And then they'll beg you, or force you, to reverse your earlier decision. What should you really do? Let things fade away until it doesn't exist? Let things develop until you can't control it anymore? It's funny thinking that nobody is really able to stick with their decisions, especially if it's one that other people made for themselves. It will take a lot of time to flip.

Fingers pointed, unusually large eyes, and the absolute refusal to put things gently.

Accusingly. Fingers pointed, unusually large eyes, and the absolute refusal to put things gently.

So, I said, I'll take it in stride, and yes, I'm not bothered anymore. I just have nothing to write, and I thought I'll write about it, and we'll see where things go. It's just that, well, it's scary.

Here it is. You want this? You got it. I was not called a bitch for nothing.

And yes, I looked like a lost dog, but nobody really tells me anything, and I understand. Or, well, I'm just used to it. And you'll all go "what?" and think I'm absolutely stupid.

No, no, no, I'm not talking to myself. You are a ghost, aren't you? Stay away from me. You do not exist.

So sometimes I think about it. This is it. The moment I long knew would happen, and the moment I still cringe. Oddly, I revisit it. Often. I must be that desperate. Fingers pointed, unusually large eyes that say "I don't want to deal with you..."

And the absolute refusal to put things gently.

But I haven't done anything.

Sticker number seven is a new favorite of mine: a tall dark cherry mocha frappucino.

Too bad it's just a holiday special. Then again, it's just because I want that Starbucks planner. It's not really a big deal. I'm just challenging myself to gather seventeen stickers so I can get one of those planners. I've never done it before. That, and I have disposable income now. And I'm incrementally sleepier every day.

There is a branch near my office, one populated by college girl stereotypes and those who have gotten over it. The faces there have grown familiar, although I'm not yet on a first-name basis with them. There were a handful of hellos, especially with this one barista, I presume, the senior one, when I spotted her in the 7-Eleven branch nearby. Thus, I don't expect anyone to get my name right when they write it down my cup.

"Tall dark cherry mocha frap for Niko!"

Of course, they'd write my nickname with a C instead of a K. I understand. Apparently the way I spell mine is uncommon, although from where I am how they spell it is uncommon. I understand, because both letters sound like each other, like the way we mangle our Ps and Fs, or our Bs and Vs. I want a praf from Starvucks.

The bit worth blogging was when I finally claimed my frap. I knew it was my frap. I saw the barista blend a mix of milk, coffee and dark chocolate bits, and I saw the barista add in that cherry syrup bit. I knew it was mine, but there were formalities, so I just let them be. "One tall dark cherry mocha frap for..."

She was struggling to read the other barista's handwriting. It did say "Nico", only it was round and plump. Cyclical, but still readable.

"...Nice?"

"Niko, actually."

Wasn't it just yesterday when Marcia talked to me on Facebook, asking me how work has been, not realizing that I am at work, because her months, maybe more than a year, in Canada has warped both her sense of time and her ability to detect when snow falls? The same Marcia that, when she was still, I can't remember, training in a call center, maybe, goaded me to treat her to a dark cherry mocha frappucino? Venti, not tall. "Bago ako umalis papuntang Canada," she said, when her departure became imminent.

Of course, neither took it seriously. It's just funny that, by some weird twist of fate, or maybe a flick of the pen, she had her own. Well, I drank it, and it wasn't what she wanted. Still.

Surrounded by college girl stereotypes, I went back to the office. Unfortunately for the rest, lonelier.

They sall say "try and try until you succeed". Makes sense, if you're the type who never gives up and has everything to go for, the type who believes people only have to pay attention to you and go "hey, you're not half-bad".
Catch is, I haven't seen anyone who goes about like that. The perfect excuse is "I'm just human", and with that, we get frustrated when everything we do brings us nothing, even after we've tried and tried and tried. "Until you succeed"? More of "until you see your life going down the drain because of your obsession". I'm tired of trying. So why not try elsewhere? I'm tired of trying. You weren't listening. I won't just sit here and take all the abuse, but I won't just try and try and try, knowing that I will never succeed.

Well, because you haven't tried.

Ohhh, trust me, I tried and tried and tried. And they said I have everything going for myself. And where am I? You're just not content. But of course. The perfect excuse is "I'm just human", and with that, we want something else from the moment we get very close to achieving what we want. Lightning McQueen, for instance, not crossing the finish line in the Pistol Cup, stopping just a foot shy of the checkered flag. I'm writing. I'm getting published. Some compromise. You know what I will ask next.

I read somewhere, in one of those magazines I bought, about a survey. I don't know if I should trust the source: they were interviewing a writer for The Simpsons. People would choose to be dumb and happy, rather than smart and unhappy. A curse, I say. And no, I'm not saying everyone else around me is dumb, although I actually envy them because they're happy. Twitter replies, for one. They'll ask you and go, "gimik after work, sama ka?" Or, you'll ask the same question and they'll go, "tara!"

Well, because you haven't tried.

Ohhh, trust me, I tried and tried and tried. And they say all you have to do is ask nicely and make yourself available. They all have excuses, the worst of all being "I'm meeting up with another friend". They scheduled before you, but it also means you're never a priority. You can't always have bad timing. You're just not their friend, that is all. I have boldly claimed, many times, earlier tonight included, that I don't have any friends. All I have are acquaintances - they'll only need you when they need something, not someone - and unrequited loves, which makes everything complicated, unncesesarily complicated.

So, tomorrow, I'm returning to my desk, and I'll type in a thousand words, chat with a few people, and go home, and have dinner, and sleep. I have done my part, and guess what? "I'm sorry, but you're just not good enough for me." You're just thinking that. But it's true. They never say that to their friends. I am, after all, just an acquaintance. "But I love you!" Really? Why are you always too busy? You just don't get it, you know? We're all working. We have our obligatons. Our priorities. And yet you make time for everybody else.

Well, because you haven't tried.

Ohhh, trust me, I tried and tried and tried. And they all say that I have to try a bit more, because somewhere, soon, is someone who will make time for you. The probability of finding that "you", I assume, is one in six billion.