There are two reasons why I haven't been blogging a lot lately.

One, I'm aiming to write more anecdotal blog entries than confrontational ones. "But this is your blog," Icka once told me shortly after I wrote one of the latter types - you know, the sort that sounds absolutely angry and usually addressed to an unidentified someone. "You don't have to think about who will read it. It's your blog." Well, yes, but surprisingly I'm actually getting tired of them. From a creative viewpoint, it says nothing, and for someone who's been exposed to pretty good writing lately, that doesn't cut it. From a personal viewpoint, it is absolutely stressful - yes, folks you've won this one, although I'm not making any promises.

Two, I'm just plain busy. When you're busy, you don't have the time to connect every observation you've made and turn it into a coherent bunch of paragraphs. I wrote a handful of inspired (or so I believe) entries at the beginning of the month, but the moment American Idol and Lost started fighting for a slot on my schedule, I knew something had to give. Mind you, it's not fun going home at seven in the evening, a full two hours after your mind starts sleeping.

Then again, I knew it was going to happen. This isn't the first time I had lots to do in a stretch of time. (The first time I pointed it out, more so.) Surely as time passes I'll have more and more things to do, and before you know it, I'll be turning in my work and leave immediately, rather than spend the next, say, two hours or so catching up with the shows I cover and waiting for six to arrive. I'll be writing less - well, I'll be writing here less, and I'll be written out at work. It's a surprise I haven't had frequent bouts with writer's block yet.

"I was such a fan of blogs before," Clarence tweeted a couple of weeks ago. "Now, I can't even make myself write a decent whatever about my day."

(I'd like to think it was because she saw something I wrote. That's just me fishing for a compliment.)

"Me too!" Ariane responded.

"You just updated yours last month," Clarence answered. "Hindi ka counted."

First, yes, I was eavesdropping on their Twitter conversation. Second, something did occur to me when I saw that, something that's already occurred to me before I forgot about it: someday, I'll be so busy I won't be able to blog. My little promise about writing at least one blog entry every month is bound to break soon. Heck, maybe if things go differently I'll be forced to abandon this blog in a few years' time. I don't want to, for I seriously plan to stick with this for the rest of my life, during which I'll be forced to fight with both writer's block and forgetfulness - something that everybody else I know who currently keeps a blog surely isn't entertaining.

"So," Anna asked me yesterday, my first idle online chat after four weeks of dealing with Kate making out with Sawyer, "what are your plans for the future?"

Oddly, my only plans for the future involve keeping this blog, and nothing much about high education (she's thinking of where to take her masters), career advancement ("I want to work as a part-time DJ!" she quipped) and, at the very least, settling down (we didn't talk about it, so I can just presume things are going well). The conclusion, of course, is something you've seen me say before: I am so screwed.

Clarence started working at this production house at the beginning of this year. Conveniently, it's on the same street at my building. It means that, after eighteen months at work - barring the few times with Valerie and my pointless fantasies of asking a cartoon character out for lunch - I finally got myself a lunch buddy. Well, provided she's not busy with editing videos while eating food delivered from somewhere.

On our second time out, I ended up giving her a tour of Pearl Drive. A bit surprisingly, she hasn't been exposed to the wonders of pretty cheap meals on that little street, not to mention the bigger food chains. Then again, she's probably too busy with those videos. "Dati, two weeks, one screen, editing lang. Ngayon, one week, tatlong screen, may shooting pa." I didn't fully understand what she was trying to say, but I can imagine the hell that was video production class was more like earth. It's one of the things we were supposed to be prepared for: all this pressure, which was why I was a bit giddy to go back to the office. Those slideshows are killing me, not to mention ruining my nightly commute schedule.

"Si Kevin pala, nagtuturo na sa La Salle," she said.

I already knew this. My sister's president of the Literature Circle, and she succeeded Kevin. Now, he was in our block, but a term into the major subjects, he shifted to literature. He's a pretty smart guy, monopolizing all discussions in our philosophy classes, and he writes good poetry, if I ever knew what good poetry is. And then there was the day we chatted online, when he asked me about graduate school admissions. He was also working in Ortigas at the time, but he was writing - we had the same jobs, more or less - were "trash", and he quit. Now, he's taking a post-graduate degree, and is also teaching.

That, of course, got me thinking. There's been a running joke within the family, that my sister will end up becoming a teacher - not really a bad thing, although it seems whoever studies literature ends up teaching literature. For us communication students, it's working in the media, or something close to it. The batch above us sent a deep voice to radio and a pretty face to television, among others. I know I shouldn't be comparing, but we pretty much failed.

Okay. Not really. It's just me being frustrated with myself.

I can count with my fingers my batchmates who are working within the industry we've long planned to infiltrate. Biggest success story, perhaps: Carlo, who I last spotted on ANC, doing a sports show. Well, I didn't really spot him do his on-air segment, because I only caught the end credits. Segment host/producer: Carlo Cruz. Not really a surprise, since he had the chance to take up OJT unlike us. That, and his resume screams "hire me!"

Jose, last I gathered, is doing production for 99.5 RT. Either that, or Adfarm. I knew he'd make it there anyway. There was the time he suddenly popped up on YM and asked me to listen to a rush plug he made. Of course, it sounded just fine, for here was the guy who seemed to be too busy to teach me Pro Tools during radio production class. Or, he wanted to do things his way. I sooo saw this coming.

"Si Sars, nasa Q pa rin, I think. Pati rin yata si Piyar. Di ko lang sure kung andun pa siya."

And, of course, Jackie, who worked with Eat Bulaga before flying to Taiwan to study.

"Si Kat," Clarence said, in a she's-so-successful-you-can't-reach-her tone. "Yun, si Kat." Well, she's in a pretty big production company, shooting music videos and television shows and, at one point, what she described as a "thesis" from the government. That is, more or less, how we define a success story. Or, that's how I define a success story. Never mind me sounding absolutely bitter for having placed myself in some office. That's how I define a success story. And, last time I checked, I also had the right to feel frustrated. Still, I might need to throw in an apology here in case you see your name on this essay.

On our first time out, I was wearing my Idol shirt, the one they sold as part of Sir Doy's birthday celebration. "Suot ko rin yan kahapon," Clarence said. On our second time out, she revealed it was during a music video she was shooting for work. "Ako saka yung friend ko, kami yung naging lead," she said, or at least that's what she tried to say. "So kita yung Doy shirt sa video."

"So matagal ka na palang success story," I quipped. "Di ba? Nasa video kayo nun with Sam Milby?"

I realized I was slowly destroying whatever remained of my good mood.

"Well, napu-publish rin ako, internationally, so..."

Ariane and I had a fourth Ortigas "date". This was a few weeks back. It was unusual because it happened at around four in the afternoon. I left the office at a time when I don't usually leave it, although luckily I had nothing much left to do. She was using a sick leave to look for a side line. She grabbed something to eat before going home, and figured we'd have a little chat. She surely knew how lonely I was, being the only person I know in the area... well, at least Clarence started working nearby. But that was just two weeks ago. And I digress.

Well, it was the usual pleasantries, although me using the term "pleasantries" might imply that we did nothing but act as if we like each other. We like each other. We're good friends, more or less. The conversation, I meant, was about the usual things, and apart from my questions on why she was in the area, we pretty much talked about the same things: our jobs, our salaries, our future options, our shared past. And, oddly, marriage.

I met her boyfriend way back. "Jave, Niko. Niko, Jave." I was just two weeks into my work then, and we had a reunion of sorts at the Cinemalaya film festival two years back. I'd hear his name in the few other times we've met, and this time's no different. We were talking about the annual Paskuhan at UST, where he studies. For some reason Ariane started thinking about buying him a little something before she leaves. "Konting pasalubong lang," she'd explain, although I actually got it. They do it every time, she says, or so I think she said. I absolutely don't remember how I managed to shoehorn a discussion about marriage, although if we're talking about relationships in our early 20s then I guess it's utterly inevitable.

By then, I realized, I'll be attending weddings in the near future.

During my first year in college, I openly pondered about whether someone will invite me to their debuts. It was a big deal, after all. The little girl becomes a lady! Such clichés abound! Being invited means you're significant in that person's life! I failed to realize that, by the time these things happen, the birthday girl is closer to their high school friends than their college friends, and there'd be a smattering of relatives around, too. Still, I was invited to a handful of debuts. Three, I think, the first being the surprise thing Caresse's mother organized, when for some stroke of luck I was tasked to bring other members of the block to what is supposed to be a family dinner. Initially I was gushing - she picked out the right number from her phone bill! - but eventually it felt a bit awkward seeing all those relatives. It went smoothly, though, never mind that I ended up only bringing 13 more people rather than 17. It wasn't achingly formal.

I'm not sure about weddings, though. I've been to some, sure, but most of them were when I was young, and the last one was when my grandparents renewed their vows. I have friends, or so I'd like to think - people who consider me a significant part in their lives, people who are taking the next step by striking it out on their own and starting a family. We're in our 20s. It will happen within the next ten years. I will get an invitation from the mail, perfumed and delicate. You are cordially invited to the union of this and that. You look at the list of people and get giddy over who is chosen as the maid of honor, perhaps. "Maid of honor si Lau!" for example, provided she returns from Sydney on time. I probably wouldn't care if I'm not part of the ceremonies - as long as I get an invitation, I'm fine. But I'll be bogged down by picking an outfit, and buying a gift, and being in the church, trying to hide my cynicism. And the reception, too. Talking to all these people, taking care not to eat much at the buffet, still trying to hide my cynicism about my own future. It'd be worse if I had a crush on the bride.

But, of course, that's just me daydreaming. I'm not exactly in the best position to get a wedding invitation. I'm generally out of the loop; I don't know who's hooking up with who. I'll hear of a break-up but my attempts to comfort the friend in question will be promptly ignored simply because it's me who's saying it. Heck, I'm not in anybody's circle of friends, even. "Ayokong i-invite si Niko," you might begin. You have two possible excuses: either we don't really know each other, or you're going to be concerned about my welfare. Supposedly. "Out of place lang siya dun. 'Di ko naman siya ka-barkada or something, eh." Same banana. Consider that I already missed my very first wedding, although if my ears aren't deceiving me, it's one of those bitches. "He does not have a right to know. Punta kayo sa reception! And don't worry, 'di kita pipiliting kumain." I wouldn't have anyway, just because.

Ariane ruled out the possibility. Not that she doesn't want to settle down in the future: she just didn't want to talk about it. We settled for Krispy Kremes. She chose three, I paid for one - I'm that helpful, although you can say I'm that desperate for praise - and she headed home on a bus. I walked back to the office trying to remember what else I might have to do. As far as I'm aware, none of them involve weddings. There's no chance I'm significant to anyone, I inevitably thought, and I got into the elevator pretty depressed. And no, it had nothing to do with the children that come almost every time.

"It's breast cancer awareness month, so we'll all post the color of the bras we're wearing right now. I'm wearing black."

I don't really mind. It's a noble cause, and an imaginative campaign, too.

"Skin-tone. Is that right?"

But there's a problem, though.

"Purple."

"Red, and proud of it!"

I'm afraid that I'll sound like a pervert here, but this isn't really the most helpful thing for someone who's got a vivid imagination.

"Pink. A bright pink."

I mean, I shouldn't really mind, especially if I've seen you in a bikini, which makes it, I don't know, less perverse thinking about it. Say, if Olivia Munn participated, it wouldn't be so bad, because I've seen her in lingerie.

"Beige. Sort of."

But I haven't seen you in lingerie.

"White!"

And it's not something I expect to see, either.

"Pink and white. Stripes. Yeah."

But my mind works visually. Tell me something and I'll try to see it in my head. This dude got hit by a car and his guts spilled out. I'll try to see that in my head, and I'll understand, more or less. Being surrounded by all these colors on Facebook? By default my head thinks of a woman's bust, with a bra over it, and that color. And all the other details.

"Green."

And it leaves nothing to the imagination!

"Black. But it's slightly see-through... am I being too detailed?"

Yes, you are.

"Gray."

Okay, so you're probably saying, "come on, Niko, if you don't want to look like a pervert - and, by the way, you are a fucking pervert writing about this - then stop thinking about it!" And I could. "Stop reading our posts!" And I could! But the campaign is inescapable, and every woman I know is posting a color, and maybe dealing with all the encouraging or jokey of off-the-cuff comments, and I know why they're posting colors, and my mind's doing what it always does, and I feel freaking bad for actually knowing it. It's much like knowing what having 36D breasts mean, only far worse. Or are they the same?

"It's a flower pattern. Must be pink, and red, and some other color."

Come on, don't form an angry mob. That doesn't mean I'll never stop thinking about the colors you posted! It's already bad if I've had the hots for you. Doubly bad, maybe. And don't tell me I can't write about it - it's bad enough that I had to, because I think it's a valid observation on life! Another failed attempt at humor! Worse, I'm making myself look bad! What about the others who might've, in an odd twist of fate, taken an interest at me?

"I'm not wearing one. Full commando!"

Oh, come on!

When I was five, or six, I dreamt of being seven. It seemed like a landmark year. "You're all grown up," it says. That, and they say that you're almost certain to have a birthday party when you turn seven. The same thing happens when you turn thirteen, they say.

When I turned seven, I dreamt of being eight.

Numbers, they say, are arbitrary, and I agree. I don't feel any different, really. Back then, however, it meant a lot. Turning eight means getting older, and whatever comes with it, whatever that may be. That, and almost all of my friends were eight when I was seven. "One month tayong pareho ng age," I told Carmel back then, a bit giddy because, for one month, I'll be in the same level as my then biggest crush.

I wasn't looking forward to a birthday party when I turned thirteen. I didn't even need to look back at my seventh (and last) birthday party. It was at the Shakey's branch at SM Southmall, back when it had a large television screen always tuned in to Magandang Gabi Bayan and green wall ornaments, or something. I remember Anna's dad holding the microphone and forgetting that we're in a birthday party, not a prayer meeting. "And now, let us sing number... ay, mali." Then again, it probably wasn't my birthday party.

In place of the party was the dinner. It became about me getting to eat at restaurants I haven't been to, and not me turning a year older.

At least, until I was sixteen, when I started thinking of me turning seventeen, because it means I'm a year closer to turning eighteen. I was in college back then, and I wasn't exactly the youngest in the block. Sars and Les, I think. And Kevin, too. Our maturity was no longer defined by how old we are, but how old we act. Me, I was just imagining the new opportunities when I turn eighteen. "Legal ka na!" they'd all say, before they'd goad me to watch some sexy movie, which isn't possible anymore since that sort of film has died down. FHM may have plastered "for 18+ readers only" on its covers but I didn't buy them, still.

I did watch a sexy movie. By myself. For school. Silip, it was, that one with Diana Zubiri hallucinating about Francine Prieto, and we film students decided it's crap. Derek had a story about the guy beside him, well, doing stuff.

When I was nineteen, I didn't worry about turning twenty.

Now I'm turning twenty-one, well... okay. I'm more worried about the money I'll spend.

I'm a writer. People around me say I write well, and I believe them. A part of me wants all the praise I can get. A part of me is more practical. But of course, it'd probably go. If I wasn't a good writer, I'd probably be an accountant right now. Or the guy who puts the toppings on your pizza. No, I'm writing about Glee for a living.

But it's only lately when I began buying books. It's an odd unspoken rule: you have to be well-read if you're to become a writer. You should've spent a considerable chunk of your life reading books from authors you don't know. You know, the classics, the ones that wouldn't make sense to you until you're forced to make a report about them for some class. I grew up reading newspapers, though, starting from the last page and ending on the first. In fact, I never really read the articles. The only thing I can attribute to reading newspapers at an early age is my neater-than-most-guys handwriting. But I had fun reading those insurance advertisements on the Sunday newspapers - before filling the forms out. Name: Henrik Batallones. Sex: Male.

I have six books on my little corner on the bookshelf. One's a self-help book. I wouldn't buy one, but it was a gift for me. I tried reading it, and tried my best to apply everything to my life, but I went through three years of college and I didn't really make an effort. Three of them are about politics. One was a gift from a family friend, and I tried my best to appreciate it, even if I'm no supporter of George W. Bush. The other two were about Watergate, and for that I thank the extraordinary coincidence of Frost/Nixon the film, and investigative journalism class.

And, after half a year or so, I finally finished David Sedaris' latest collection of essays. Here's where we begin. I'm a writer, and they say I'm a good writer, so daydreaming of me releasing a collection of my blog entries doesn't exactly count as wishful thinking. It's possible, if only I wasn't screwed in life, taking the right credentials by, say, writing for the school paper, or writing for reputable, pretentious publicatons. Still, in the most boring of days, I just lie on my bed, thinking of how the book would be organized. By subject? Surely. Perhaps arranged by whoever was the topic of the entry. I write a lot about girls. I'm an obsessed romantic. That's something you could sell.

At the very last page of When You Are Engulfed In Flames is a blurb on the author. I feel intimidated. I really don't have the credentials. And nobody wants to read introspective essays on the failures of romance. They'd rather read astute observations on stuff. I don't have that. Nobody likes cynical people. I'm sure people hate me for changing the radio station solely because Noynoy Aquino has a Christmas message. Nobody likes people who repeat themselves. But I said that already.

On the first pages are excerpts from reviews of the book. Friends say I'm a good writer, but nobody really goes into detail, and perhaps that's because there's no other detail, and for that, I'm screwed too. "An enjoyable read." "A substantial collection." "Delightful." "Profound." "Destined to become a classic." All I get is a confused look on someone's face. Ning and I had this conversation before. "You always presume people know what you're talking about," she said. I wanted to think my blog was the sort you'd commit to, like a fan sucked into watching Lost and figuring out every floating question. Nobody really does that.

Right after the table of contents was a dedication. Now, if I do publish a book, to who do I dedicate it to? For some reason, the authors of the books I bought don't dedicate it to their families. I guess it's a given already. Me, that sounds predictable. "I dedicate this book to my father, mother, sister and brother, and to God Almighty." It's a lazy way out. I think it's the sort of thing first-time Filipino authors do, what more with a family-based society. You dedicate your book to someone who's been beside you all the way, and not because they have to.

My book will be tentatively named Open Letters, and it will be dedicated to Icka. When the family sees this, I'm screwed.

"Babae siya?"

"Opo."

"Crush mo?"

Really, I'm just daydreaming, and I thought of Icka's name because we talked about Selena Gomez before I went home from work. "She doesn't have boobies," she went. "She's not flat-chested," I answered. "She seems to have healthy, average boobs," she said, to which I argued that "average" breasts is something, unlike being totally flat. It was a filthy conversation, come to think of it, but that's what you get for being in the public view.

But I won't explain that to the family. "No, friend ko siya," I'd answer, and I imagine my uncle quipping with a mix of delight and, maybe, disappointment. "Lahat ng friends mo tsiks, tapos wala kang girlfriend?" There always has to be a romantic connection, and while I had fun with that in elementary, being proud of my crushes back them while acting as if I found true love, at this point in life it seems just wrong. I don't understand why your relatives are closely interested in your love life. It's the first thing they ask during family reunions.

"May boyfriend ka na?"

"Wala po. Ayoko po ng boyfriend."

"Girlfriend, gusto mo?"

"Ayoko po magkaroon ng relationship."

"Eh ang ganda-ganda mong babae!"

"Hindi po. Pangit po ako."

And then the family would read my book - heck, it's got to happen, right? - and they'd read everything. All those essays about one college crush after another, all those names revealed, an unusually desperate side of me unveiled. The questions would come shortly afterwards. "Sino si Misha?" they'd go, and I'd explain that she's a friend in college, and that's all there is to it. Maybe I'd mention that she has a boyfriend, last time I checked, to kill the conversation, but they'd insist on the interrogation, just when I start wondering whether she changed her phone number, because it should explain for her not sending me a Christmas greeting last year. They're not really the sort of things I'd want my family to read about, but I guess that's what I get for being in the public view, at least in my daydreams. Therefore, I shall not compile my blog entries into a book.

I have two thousand bucks.

That, believe it or not, was a problem. We did come from a five-day vacation, and I withdrew money just in case I had to buy something. Two thousand bucks would've covered it, although I didn't really spend it on anything other than ice cream on a particularly hot day in Baclayon. And that was with my smaller bills. Upon returning from Tagbilaran, I was carrying two thousand bucks split into two thousand-peso bills.

Unfortunately for me, I have to go to work by myself tomorrow, and for the rest of next week. I'm a nice guy, relatively. I don't like giving thousand-peso bills to pay my P75 fare.

That's the problem, I guess, with not spending anything on anything. Not wanting to, perhaps - day by day I realize I am beyond thrifty, in a reprehensible, killjoy manner. The only time I recall spending so much money was when I was in Singapore a couple of months ago, but only because I was too giddy to realize that the $400 I was holding was P10,000 converted. A hardbound book and eight CDs? Of course, I'd forget. Back here, I had to convince myself extra hard to stick with the coffee just so I can get the planner. Buying something above P500 pains me, even if everybody will say I deserve it.

Or, maybe, I could blame it on the ATMs not giving me my money in smaller bills. Then again, I've been earning my salary for a year and a half now, and I should be used to it.

"Wala kasi akong luho" is the better-sounding excuse. In those eighteen months, I spent my money on food and transportation, almost all of the time. There's the occasional magazine. There's the rare lunch splurge. At certain points, there are the gifts, which is sometimes an arduous process, because I have to let go of more money than I usually do at one time. That, or I'm very used to spending the money I earn on myself.

And I don't drink. I don't smoke, although sometimes I end up buying cigarettes for my mother. My work-life balance is non-existent: I spend my Saturday nights wondering why there's nothing good on the radio. And then I find the answer: the listeners are often out, having fun. Get a life and go out, the radio would nudge me.

But it is, still, the better-sounding excuse. At least a bigger chunk of my money goes to savings, and when it's time for me to strike out on my own - if it happens - I'll have enough to start over. (Then again, that argument loses steam because I don't have anything to compare myself with. I don't know how much my contemporaries earn, more so keep.) While the world pays for a taxi, a drink and anything that gets it wasted, I think about my future.

That sounds good, admit it, although the truth is far from it - I'm probably only thinking of the laptop I told myself I'll save up for this year, rather than my bank account.

People always tells me to not hesitate when it comes to spending on something that I want. "Splurge," they say. "You deserve it" - I remember Jackie telling me that a year ago, when I inadvertently spent P500 on a haircut and something else, and when I spent P600 on a massage and a foot scrub by Panglao Beach days ago. And yet, for some reason, it feels painful for me to let go of my money, and I end up with large bills. Five hundred bucks. A thousand bucks. Either I blame the ATM, or I blame me.

My mother found smaller bills earlier today. One of my thousand-peso bills has been split into six smaller bills, which is perfect for my morning commute. And then there's pay day two days from now, and I'll deal with large bills again. It goes directly to savings. It's not a birthday gift. It's just a habit, at the expense, perhaps, of my social life.

Get a life and go out. I'll play hardcore trance while you're at it.

Sorry, but I'd rather sleep with ambient electronica in the background.

Thirty minutes later, that seems it. The media noche is over, and so are the fireworks. The countdown specials on television have wrapped up. The calendars have started over again. There's plenty on zeros, and in a similar fashion, there's plenty of ones. After the euphoria of the actual moment when the clock hits midnight, the numbers flip and you know it all starts again, what now?

I'm not really the sort who does these things when a new year arrives. New year's resolutions? Waste of time. I'd rather keep on doing what I'm doing - not that I'm (that) resistant to change, but I don't really have to limit myself to the first day of the year. "I shall lose weight." Really, I'd rather walk for the next 365 days rather than dump all my efforts in December, when I realize I haven't followed up on anything. That, or I'm totally lazy.

Still, oddly, there was this sense of revolution when both hands of the clock hit twelve. It was noisy, maybe less than before, but still noisy, and there I was, seated in front of the computer, watching tweets fly - I can't go out, stupid asthma attack - and going, "well, this is it."

I don't actually know why, but it does feel like there's much more at stake this time around than before. That, or I've become too existential over the past few days. Maybe it's the difference a change of number brings - two zeros for the past ten years, finally giving way to a one... and two more zeros, right.

Let's see if the next 365 days justify the first thirty minutes. Or the next 3652.