I had a crush on a girl's cleavage.

I don't remember her name. (Okay, so I'm just pretending I don't remember her name. I do.) I saw her back in college. She was my classmate in one class, maybe two. She was this small girl who always wore shirts with big necklines. Okay, so her breasts aren't really big, but you can say they're perfectly perky. They're not too saggy, they're not too shocking, and they're perfectly flaunted.

On the flip side, she wore glasses and her face looked sufficiently cute, but she seemed very, very bitchy. She was a little soft-spoken but she had this absolutely bitchy air. Like, she'll just come up to you and slap you. "Stop staring at my boobs!" could be her line. Maybe if she learned to keep things to the imagination she'd not get that description from me. So, while I was having lunch earlier, and I was looking around trying to stay awake, for the oddest of reasons, I remembered her cleavage.

I won't be surprised if, after those paragraphs, my readership drops to almost zero.

Yes, I accept that I am a guy. A straight guy. A straight guy who's sometimes at the mercy of my raging hormones. I've watched naked ladies in cable television shows. I've watched the most graphic of sex scenes. I flip through magazines, half-anticipating a peeking nipple. You say that's perfectly normal, so I'll say that, yes, I do have those tendencies, too.I'm a guy.

You'd also say that it's definitely gross, so I don't know what to think of myself now. A pervert with a totally freaky smile and eyes that follow only the most, err, critical of things?

"I stared at her ass again," I'd tell a friend. "Oh no."

"It's perfectly normal," she'd say. Yes, she's a she. "You're a guy."

Okay, it's perfectly normal, but it's definitely gross, too. Why can't we just agree on one thing rather than two?

Guys first look at a woman's physical attributes. Me, I'm not that perverted. I'll always say that the first three things I check in a girl are her eyes, her hair and her cheeks. (Thanks to my mother for determining one-third of the criteria.) But that's still physical. Sooner or later, you'll start checking the lady out and your eyes will trail elsewhere. "She's got a nice ass. It's bigger than I expected."

"I stared at her ass again. Oh no."

"It's perfectly normal. You're a guy."

To our credits, us guys aren't just about the physical. Fine, we tend to buy those men's magazines for the photos alone ("are Niña Jose's nipples peeking out?" and then squinting really close) but sooner or later we'll start looking at the personality. Sounds like a catch-all excuse, but why do we have love songs? "Pinaiyak mo na naman ako." It's a sensitive side nobody wants to give us credits for.

Unfortunately when things do go well it all ends up with sex, and we're back to the physical bits. "Pare, she's a nice, tight little package. And boy, can she rock it!"

So why do we have to be the gross ones? At the risk of overgeneralizing, you ladies also like the physical stuff. "He's very very sexy, but 'day, he doesn't have the goods to back it up. Bitin ako!"

"I think he's so chivalrous," you might well me. "And handsome too."

So if we're all the same, I guess I should not feel any guilty when I talk about that cleavage I mentioned earlier. So what if I remembered it all of a sudden? I'll admit. I stared at it a good few times, amazed at how seemingly perfect it is. I don't care if she can come up to me and slap me. It's seemingly perfect. I'm a guy. That's what I do. Like you don't do the same things, too.

Only, of course, you can all call us gross and we can only say you're having some girl's talk in your packed toilets. I may not have an explanation as to why we do such things, but you don't either. So, will you please return to my blog and give my almost zero readership a lift?

I think that girl's on my yearbook. Not sure though.

He stood up from his chair, lingered a minute, and left. He walked. He walked. He walked to the reception desk. He went to the computer, searched for his name, and typed his password. Once, twice, thrice.

He took his eyes off the monitor, and prepared to leave.

Before he got out of the reception desk, she came by. Their eyes met. Greetings were presumably exchanged. He went closer to the door, but stopped to ask her something. She smiled. She smiled this really big smile. Her entire face lit up. You don't see that often.

She said something, he presumably said something, and they left together.

I was fifteen feet away, on my desk, watching all of that unfold. I wasted a good thirty seconds watching them.

In my defense, I was deep in thought. I was finishing my last article for the day. I was in the middle of a sentence, finishing my thought, when I stared into empty space, or what used to be empty space. At the same time, I was typing whatever occurred to me. "And so on, and so fucking..." no, wait. Get a hold of yourself. Backspace, backspace, backspace. "And so on, and so forth."

For most of the series, Sun-Hwa Kwon was seen as the stereotypical submissive wife. Coming from an Korean background, the heir to a huge business empire, sometimes you can't help but just follow what's expected of you.

But calling her submissive is a huge injustice. She defied her father's wishes by marrying someone outside of their circles. When the marriage didn't work, she secretly learned English, planning to escape him - but love would prevail. After Oceanic 815 crashed on the Island, she grew to become a strong-willed woman with a heart, despite initial struggles with her past, her husband Jin, and the supposed language barrier. She may do anything to get what she wants, but only to a certain extent.

The opposite can be said of Charles Widmore. An inhabitant of the Island, he went up the ranks to become a leader of the Others, or as it was then called, the Others. He showed an understanding of the intricate nature of the Island, the balance of power between the mysterious forces that watch over it, which made his rise to prominence easy.

But he had lapses in later years: he had a child with an outsider, and butted heads with the new leadership, reasons for him to be sent to exile. Having reestablished himself in London, he built a massive business empire and vowed to return to the Island - with his understanding of its mystical properties - and claim it for himself, stopping at nothing to get his way.

There isn't much that connects Sun to Widmore, but them meeting was pretty inevitable. Business deals are made across the world, and two powerful people would network for business interests. But their connection didn't have anything to do with business: it was all about the Island.

Sun is part of the Oceanic Six, survivors of the crash that were rescued after months of being marooned on the Island. The escape came at a price, though: her husband was killed in an explosion aboard the Kahana, a freighter that they initially thought was there to rescue them. It's been long established that the freighter was sent by Widmore, as part of his plan to take over the Island. But Benjamin Linus, the last leader of the Others - and the person who kicked Widmore off the Island, establishing a fierce rivalry between them - asserted that Widmore was there to harm them. He would kill anyone to claim the Island, he claimed. To an extent, both parties were right, but the chaos it caused led to confusion among the Oceanic crash's remaining survivors.

Since the rescue, Sun has taken an important position in her father's company, and used it to avenge her husband's death. Thus, the chance meeting in London with Widmore, in which she proposed a deal.

"Are you really going to pretend that you don't know who I am?" she said, colder than we first met her.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Ms. Kwon," he answered.

"Yes, you do know, Mr. Widmore," she said. "Just like you know we've been lying all this time about where we were and what happened to us there."

The rescue of the Oceanic Six came with an elaborate back story, masking the presence of the Island in an attempt to protect it and its inhabitants, some of which include other survivors of Oceanic 815.

"You and I have common interests," she continued. "When you're ready to discuss them, call me. As you know, we're not the only ones who left the Island."

The explosion on the Kahana was because of the discovery of a stash of explosives on board. One of the expedition's members, Martin Keamy, set it to detonate when he - as the leader of the mercenary group sent to extract Ben - was killed. He was, indeed, killed by Ben, in retaliation for the death of his adopted daughter, Alexandra Rousseau. Despite every effort to prevent the detonation, the bomb went off, killing everybody on board, except for one person.

It can be said that his reasons for killing Keamy are valid, but the same can't be said for Ben's intentions. As the leader of the Others, he preyed on the survivors, threatening their lives by kidnapping them, and later manipulating them to do his bidding. He did these deeds also in understanding of the mystical forces on the Island, although it was later revealed that his beliefs were a little misplaced, so to speak. Regardless of his intentions, though, the survivors have seen him as an antagonist, and have learned not to trust him.

Sun returned to Los Angeles but was held by airline security before boarding her flight. Widmore wanted to see her, piqued by her proposal, but unhappy with the way she came up to him with it. "You showed me no respect," he said.

"You mentioned that you and I had common interests," he continued. "Why don't you tell me exactly what they might be?"

Sun paused for a moment, but answered nonchalantly: "To kill Benjamin Linus."

Moving forward.

I hate that term.

No, I'm not saying I'd rather be stuck where I am. And no, I'm not willing to begin an argument about the nuances of keeping up with the times as opposed to sticking with your comfort zone. This has nothing to do with anything philosophical or psychological. Or, at least one aspect of it.

Yesterday I sent an email to one of the DJs at BBC 6 Music - yes, call me a geek, as if it wasn't any obvious. "I just wanted to thank her for playing a Koop track," I explained to Gwen last night. Of course, I also wanted to hear my name on some foreign radio station again. It's happened before.

My email didn't get read out, but again, that's not the point.

I got an automatic reply. I totally get it. "Please note that due to the sheer volume of emails received, although every effort will be made, we are not always able to respond to everyone individually," it said. It went on to talk about frequently asked questions and complaints.

The second half of the email was dedicated to information about the BBC Trust's consultation on the proposals to close 6 Music. I needed the reminder - I told myself (and surely Jeany also has) that I'll drop an email even if I don't pay the licence fee. But the way it was written oddly ticked me off a bit.

"Rather than respond to you all individually we thought it best to let you all know how you can, if you wish, have your say going forward."

Going forward.

It's a variation. Thus, I hate that term.

I don't know if it's because I've grown very cynical of the workplace. It's quite rare for management to understand those on the field. I don't think I've heard any of my friends get along so well with their bosses. That's totally understandable, but it gets to you when you want to work with the bosses closely. And it seems, with their every correspondence, you're reminded that you're someone they kick around rather than openly work with.

"So, moving forward, we would like to implement the changes I mentioned earlier."

I've heard it from bosses, clients, bitches... either I have misplaced intentions of collaborating closely with the top brass, or I absolutely don't understand how being in the bottom of everything (more so in my case - go figure) works. They're the same thing, right?

I've taken leadership roles a few times. This was in school, of course. Producer for television talk shows, committee head for the college anniversary, that sort of stuff. I'm quite the control freak, so I'm always in contact with my group, badgering them about how things are going. I felt so empowered when I wrote down almost-nightly email updates telling everyone of how things are going. But I kept on using terms like "starting tomorrow" or "from now on" - they sound more casual, more approachable.

Then again, I've never heard of the term "moving forward" until I began working, in emails sent to the entire Manila team, or during performance reviews with the topmost man from Seattle.

It doesn't get me as much, but it feels so stuffy. So corporate.

I'm not sure if I've used that term in an email since. Then again, I've not been in a position to use that term. It's either I assist someone or I do things by myself. I guess that's a good thing. It would be weird trying to write about what you really feel, only to find yourself covering everything up in corporate speak. "Moving forward, we would like to implement these revisions in the chemical applications to the nervous system. We would appreciate your feedback on the new process."

Rather, "I'll change the way I'll feel about this from now on. Let's see if it works."

There was this little bit of life advice that I unwittingly took when I was younger. Much younger, I must say. I was around six or seven years old back then. And unwittingly, because I took it from local films. Romances set in college, or family dramas. You know, the mainstream stuff.

My tendency to oversimplify things back then - don't we all? - led me to determine that there is a certain sequence to major things we all have to go through in our lives. Elementary school, then high school, then college. Then the barkada. Only then. And then, after that, your girlfriend. It was just supposed to happen, but I suppose I never really thought about the idea of courtship. Then marriage comes, then starting a family, then looking for a job.

Of course, that sequence is utterly wrong, which is probably the reason why I subsequently tossed it a day later. Still, it somehow survived for years - that, or I was just pretty focused with my studies. I know, that sounds unnecessarily noble. And I know, that's probably hypocritical. I did have crushes in elementary, but they were mostly childish thoughts about growing old. Nothing more.

The one thing that shattered those thoughts were high school. I guess it's because I spent eight formative years in a small school near our subdivision, reasonably sheltered by childhood innocence and slightly conservative beliefs. At least that's where I blamed it. Suddenly, I'm in the middle of a highly-evolved (questionable) and highly-civilized (questionable) society, where students bypassed the sequence. Friends! Group of friends! Dating couples! One of my classmates was recovering from a bad split with her boyfriend. Apparently it was so bad she had to visit the psychiatrist. Another of my classmates had a girlfriend who was a batch higher than him. I remember that rattling me. And then he asks me, casually, before computer class: "alam mo ba yung masturbate?"

It's been nine years since I began high school. I've been expelled and reintegrated. I've had my first beer. I've written love notes in tissue paper, which is remotely much sweeter than covering my face with my bag so I don't see this girl. (That's why I got a 78 in English.) I've had one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve huge crushes. I've thought about courtship only once, and that, as you all know, ended in miserable failure - perhaps because I never tried.

I never really rushed things. I guess it's my ADHD and my tendency to focus too much on certain things. Sure, there are things that I want to do, but there are, or so I thought, more important things. So it's beyond me why later bunch of kids are rushing to get to places. I was introduced to the concept of teenage pregnancies during high school, when one of my classmates came in and proudly said that he got his girlfriend pregnant - only to call her up right after some other guy fucked her.

And then there's one of my first college friends, who admitted to me that she's pregnant... and promptly disappeared. The baby did not see the light of day.

This morning, I was at DLSZ, having breakfast before the (ultimately pointless) Pacquiao-Clottey match. My mother mentioned this story she heard from a friend of hers. This woman's son is just, I don't know, four or five years old, perhaps, and he already has a girlfriend. And he worried about Valentine's Day gifts, and now he's worrying about a birthday present. I know, I've had crushes in pre-school, but apart from the childish "mahal mo ba ako?" comment, nothing else happened.

I was looking at the cover of today's Sunday Inquirer Magazine when a kid suddenly came to our desk and tried to grab the paper away from me. I didn't know what to do. It was a little struggle, one quickly solved when the kid's mother came by and apologized. "Say sorry," she said. The kid, maybe three, didn't budge. I later realized that the boy saw the advertisement on the back of the magazine, with Carmi Martin wearing a bikini.

Kids. They're rushing. No wonder the mainstream press was shocked when a study revealed that girls are hitting puberty at a younger age - menstruation, breast development - and I know this sounds gross but this is an actual study. They're maturing too fast. The next thing we know they'll hurtle into relationships before they're even born. Arranged marriages will become the norm in every society! Then someone will revolt, and the marrying age will return to the early 30s. The cycle continues.

I'm 21. I have a hopeless office crush, I feel rejected by most of my peers, and I am lonely. With kids younger than me making more progress than they should, no wonder I feel immature.

"Himala! Hindi ka 'busy'!"

The air quotes around "busy" was intentional. Not that I doubt Clarence is doing anything at work. I think I know what she does pretty well. It's just that, well, things just come up from out of the blue, like the day of the block reunion, when too many things happen just when we thought nothing would.

"Actually I am now," she replied. "This afternoon lang."

See what I mean?

"Niko! Let's have lunch sometime. Imma bring a friend."

My policy is pretty simple, really. I'm on call. So, if you feel like having lunch with me, I'll be available most of the time, except when something big came up, or when I'm bogged down by an extra set of responsibilities. "Especially on Tuesdays," I told Clarence, since that's more or less the only day I'm not doing anything really big.

"Teka. Sino?"

"She's psych-adver, ID 105."

"Mmmm. Baka kasi kilala ko."

"Kilala mo nga."

And then this random, bored, unnecessary conversation took an unexpected turn. Suddenly it felt like life and death was at stake... well, actually, it's just my ability to get over something I do not have answers to. The more absurd thing is, I apparently know this person. Clarence knows this person. There shouldn't be any reason to hide anything, right? Just an announcement would suffice, and I'd ponder the idea of my world shrinking further again, evidenced by common friends with Carmel more than a year ago, and now, Clarence, and now, Clarence's supposed new colleague.

"Sino nga? Bakit mo ba tinatago sakin eh kilala ko naman pala?"

I just repeated what I just said.

I do have ideas, though. I did have ideas. Did, because this story already has a conclusion of some sort. Back when Friendster was still in vogue, Jaja sent me this testimonial, talking about me being able to recite in classes easily because I think fast. It happened today, and while I knew something is amiss, I still insisted to myself that I only had two options.

One was a psychology student, although I was totally unsure whether she took advertising. But, I figured, it somehow fits because she shifted to psychology from communication arts.

One was also a psychology student, only I was totally sure she took advertising, too. My Facebook news feed said so. She got a new job, she said, and it was in an advertising agency. I saw it over the weekend, but I was too lazy to read through all 37 comments. I would've checked today, but it's either the company has blocked Facebook, or something's oddly wrong with the site and my PC.

That, and from what I remember, Clarence doesn't exactly work at an advertising agency. Or maybe I read the few comments that I can read incorrectly. Whatever.

"Hulaan mo! She's Santugon and a friend of Sars."

There goes option number one.

The preliminary conclusion goes like this: I told Clarence the identity of my second option, and she said I got it right. Indeed, my mind is still pretty sharp, never mind that I've been dealing with the same mind-numbing pointless problems (read: the rest of the common friends theory) for the past few years or so. But, before that lunch happens - not that I'm looking forward to it - I'll keep her identity from you guys. As if it isn't any obvious. And the world shrinks on me again...

Oddly, Gwen and I started talking about blogging.

I try to avoid any talk about blogging, because I'm very aware that I'll end up talking about this blog. And if it's my blog, I end up boasting about it. Anything I talk about ends up in me boasting about something, and people don't like boastful people, the same way people, or at least most of them, don't like me.

I don't even remember how it came to be. We were talking about nothing, really. Computer issues and music amount to "nothing" nowadays.

She just mentioned that she's having a hard time committing to a blog. "I've had this for one, two years," she said.

"I've had mine for five," I said.

See? Boastful.

I said this before: I did not have this blog for five years. I've had this for eight. I created this page in 2002, supposedly as a complement to some silly website project. That didn't happen. This became a star after three years of forgetting this even exists.

Okay, so this seems weird... I'm back blogging after not updating this thing for three years or something! Wasn't it long?

So I'm back, because Robyn is silently persuading me to create my blog, not realizing that I already have one. Hehe...

So expect me to check back often, as I graduate. I really have to go. Sorry!

I wrote that in an Internet café. I obviously don't write long back then. Unlike now, when I have more emotional baggage. Ironically, I can't really unload that. Excess baggage fees. Stupid metaphor.

Yep, I'm writing this from out of nowhere.

I'm actually writing this on Friday, in the office. Thanks to recent developments, I can set this to publish tomorrow, exactly five years to the minute my first blog entry was posted. I could write this tomorrow, but my sister's got the PC locked up for herself. Her thesis requirements.

I told Gwen that I plan to stick with this blog for as long as I live. That, of course, is not sensible. I'm busy now. I have work. I have things to do. My archives area will be longer than the entries themselves. I won't have anything to write about, because my commitment to this thing will put a dent on my social life. I don't think I'd be able to write anything sensible when I hit 70 years old - still single, still longing, still whining. I don't think anybody will be reading, too.

Ahh, imagine the time when a blogging elderly is a common thing.

So, five years. I've written about the same things. I've mostly complained about the same things. It's supposed to document my college life, and now it's documenting my work life, which is technically something you shouldn't be writing about. You sign contracts upon employment for a reason.

I'm getting tired of the things I write. I'm still whining about rejection. I guess I'll still do so as long as I'm being rejected. But you can't write about rejection for five straight years and expect things to change.

Maybe I do need a life. Right? Get out more, talk to people... and maybe write about it later. Ahh, stupid commitments. I'm not the sort who just lets go of something, especially if it's something as well-entrenched as this. Especially if it's the only way someone will listen, then hell no, I will not let go.

I'm 70 years old and nobody is still willing to listen to me? Now that's just sad.