It was thirty-two minutes past nine. I finished reading my magazine. I'm not sleepy yet. I remembered I had to say something to someone, something I forgot to mention when we talked earlier in the day. I picked up my phone.

"I forgot to tell you something earlier. Have you considered buying a new jacket?"

"Why would you ask me about that?"

"I don't know. Just thought that jacket looks tattered on you."

The weather's been bipolar lately. The news was talking about a record high temperature this afternoon, the same afternoon we were talking in the coffee shop, sipping frappuccinos. We called it a day and it began to rain. I had a jacket. She had hers, too. It looks, well, tattered.

So you can say it's a random thought. I always have these random thoughts, and lately they find their way to her. "I don't like this campaign jingle. Do you?" That'd happen some nights, with me lying on the bed, waiting to fall sleepy, but not too sleepy.

I put my phone to silent. I stare at the ceiling. I wait for my phone to vibrate.

It's much like when I was in high school. There was this girl who I talked to a lot. We'd talk about nothing every night, or most nights, provided I have some credit on my phone, or she does. The best messages, I save on my phone. Yes, it's quite obvious I liked her.

I remember those nights when I'd stare at the ceiling, waiting for one last message from that girl. "I'll go to sleep," I'd text. "Goodnight!" I'd wait for her to reply. I'd wait for her to say "goodnight" back. She would say "goodnight" back.

"Night!"

Smiley face.

"Why would you notice my jacket?"

"Duh, I'm observant. Or so I'd like to think."

It was forty-five minutes past nine. I feel sleepy already. I'm waiting for her to respond. I stare at the ceiling again, thinking of what I'd say, or how I'd say it. "I'll go to sleep." Doesn't work. "I'm sleepy." Doesn't work either. The only thing that I'm certainly saying is "goodnight".

It was fifty-five minutes past nine. Nothing. I set my alarm for the following morning. I turn on my phone's sounds. I turn my phone off. I turn the lights off. I close my eyes. I wonder, if these conversations actually mean anything to anyone, it should probably go somewhere, and it certainly felt that way. "Will you be ever worth it?" I thought.

I open my eyes. I needed to get that off my system.

It's a busy Thursday. American Idol went overtime, and I'll be in Boracay tomorrow, which is why I had to do half the things I should've done on Friday today, a busy Thursday. So, I figured, I'll just have a burger at Jollibee. I've been craving for a Champ for a week.

I was planning on texting Valerie when I get settled with my burger. I was supposed to tease her. "Have you seen topless photos of David Cook?" I thought. The goal was to make her conjure that image in her head, make her go nuts, pretty much the same way she did with those Kris Allen topless photos. I didn't get the response I wanted, because apparently there were some already.

So, back to the restaurant. I'm in the counter. The server comes up to me, and I give her my order. "Isang Champ, go-large ng fries."

"Sir, twelve minutes po."

I nod. It's a busy Thursday, but I have lots of time to eat. Oddly.

I do this with my earphones on. Or, at least, one of them on, the one on my left ear, blasting whatever song was blasting at the time. Or was it blasting something? Because I did hear someone call my name. "Niko," it simply went. And I could think I'm just hearing things - they commonly happen - but not this time. So I turned. And there was Clarence. I was oddly surprised.

I mean, I shouldn't be. We've long established that she worked in a building on the same strees as mine. We've had lunch many times, but only when nothing is going on. Certainly today wasn't one of those days, since she's holding some take-out.

Now, I should be surprised to see Mara there.

Or I shouldn't, because I've long known she's working in the same place Clarence is. It's just that, well, the two aren't exactly the people I'd expect to hang out. They're not polar opposites, but they're in different worlds. Then again, that's what you get when you came from the same batch in the same college in the same university. You get to bond.

"Hi, Henrik," she went.

My impulse went one way: hug. I almost did, but the server was giving my change. So I got mine, and I turned back to them, and they said they're leaving, and that's when I realized they bought take out. And my impulse went the way it should. I just opened my arms and grabbed them and hugged them. Tightly. And then I felt awkward, partly because it's not the sort of things I do to Mara. Again, different worlds.

Then again, that's what you should get when you've been through something in common. So, yes, that fits and this one doesn't. But it still felt awkward. Like, should I even be doing it?

And then I got a seat. And then my burger arrived, five minutes later. Not twelve. They always do that.

I finally bought the latest copy of Rolling Stone last week, the one with the cast of Glee on the cover. Unfortunately, the piece on the show itself was absolute crap. The writer decided to play the douchebag card and approached the interview like the cast - itself a motley crew of Broadway veterans and little-known names - are insignificant nobodies in high school. In the end, the writer exasperatedly told us of his set visit, where the interview subjects acted like he didn't exist. In a way, it was a good ending. Not redeeming, though.

But there was this one piece that I liked. I just read it today, after walking for an hour, eating breakfast and mopping the floor of the entire house. It's about surfer Clay Marzo, someone I've never heard of, and someone I wouldn't have heard of. So he's this surfer, apparently a really, really good one, the sort who'd do dangerous tricks in the water like he was born there. But, like every other person that fascinates me, he hasn't adjusted well to everything. All the attention made him literally hide in his room at one point. It's his Asperger's kicking in. If you're the sort whose shyness is beyond painful, well, that is torture.

I've always had a soft spot for people who are terribly misunderstood. You know, the sort that are actually pretty decent people when you look closely, but have something seemingly repulsive on the outside that just forces you to pull away. Clay is terribly anxious when he's on land. I think he doesn't really like the attention. He doesn't like to conform either. It took forever for people to get it - his parents have split, his sponsors have pulled out - but when they did, they just let him be, and he did just fine. Heck, he surfs good. Really, really good. Not that I've seen him. I just trust the fact that there's an eight-page spread on him on Rolling Stone.

Anyway, that soft spot. I got that in high school. Yes, that three-month stretch marked by terrible culture shock and even more terrible people. Looking back, I didn't really do anything differently. I just made friends, or at least I tried to, at least until the person I would've considered as my best friends pulled away. It was my first Thursday in school. "Di na kita pwedeng samahan," he said. "Inaasar na nila ako, eh." Two days later, he'd be on the bullies' side, calling me autistic.

They did call me that. They called me autistic.

I was since diagnosed with ADHD. I'd like to think I've coped. After being kicked out of high school - that's my fault, ten percent of the time - I moved to a new school, where nobody believes in medicating folks like me. Sure, it was a very rough start. I think I had worse behavior there than in those first three months. I was really having outbursts. That's my impulsiveness and my hyperactivity coming in. They told me, "no, you can't do that," and soon I didn't. I still do, but not through outbursts. Or at least not so often.

But that's all I was. A little socially awkward - this was when all that I knew of the world slowly crashed in front of me - and very much hyperactive. They'd say I can channel it to the things I really loved doing. Those bullies just thought I was different, calling me autistic precisely because they don't know what they're talking about, and they can't comprehend what they're seeing, even if it's just a teeny weeny bit off. Different, as it turns out, is a death sentence. I still went through that in college. And I'm still going through that at work. Nobody calls me autistic now, but it certainly feels the same way: being ruled out of anything and everything, never mind all the supposedly good things I can do. I have done. You know, like Clay.

At least, he really was autistic. And people understood, but only after the label was confirmed. For a few years or so he was just this guy who refused to follow the rules, even if it'll cost him a lot.

Am I aligning myself with someone who's obviously miles away from me? See? That is the effect of being shunned. I have clammed up. And whenever I fight back - when I'm the one who's, for the lack of a better term, bullying - I get slapped with another death sentence. All I can do, I guess, is read all these stories and relate to them, or be happy that the writing douchebag got the cold shoulder on the Glee set. Be really happy that the writing douchebag got the cold shoulder on the Glee set. When that's me giving the shoulder, I get called a snob. By the very people who deserve it. I guess there are some things you can never change, even if you think you can. Or think they should.

After watching reality show contestants gorge on grilled shrimp as reward, I felt like having steak for lunch.

It was probably a subliminal thing, because unlike most days, I never spent five minutes in front of my computer thinking about where to eat. It was all just, "okay, we'll go here," and that was from the moment I stepped into the mall. It wasn't a swanky restaurant; it was a stall in a food court, although it was legitimate steak, and it cost quite more than my usual lunch budget.

"Mini New York cut," I said. "Medium rare. Rice. Pineapple juice."

There weren't that many people in line. In fact, it was just me and this lady, I figure around her mid-20s, although I was never good with that. To me, she looked half-bohemian, I don't know what it actually means, but I always associated it with a laid-back lifestyle, a laid-back demeanor. She was wearing this white top with lace straps. There was a huge pair of shades clipped in the middle. She was wearing jeans and flip-flops. (Flip-flops? I prefer slippers.)

She looked just fine, maybe a more chiseled Bianca King. And she had Sue Sylvester hair. She looks like the sort who likes losing herself in a book, perhaps a book by some author I wouldn't know, because I'm pathetic with books despite being a writer. Silent afternoons at the beach. Rare days out with her friends. Maybe coffee, free wi-fi. Not the sort I'd infiltrate easily. But she was buying steak. She was having steak for lunch. I don't know if it is a New York cut too. I can't tell. Oddly.

It's funny how my thought process works. A romantic steak lunch! The last time I went to that food court I was seated, alone, in a table that's supposed to seat six. A guy who ran out of tables asked me if he could sit where I am. I obliged. We were both eating sisig that day, albeit from different establishments.

It was past one, but the place was still packed, and she'd find a table and I wouldn't, and since she's alone, and she's probably the only option I had left, I'll probably come up to her and ask, "can I sit here?" And she'd nod, and I'd nod back, and I'll take my seat and wonder why I prefer my steaks medium rare when they're pretty hard to slice, especially with a blunt knife.

And then we'd talk. Steaks, naturally. At this point I'm thinking, "wow, this is the start of something wonderful," even if the conversation would end at that table in the food court. No introductions. No phone numbers changing hands. Just, you know, friendly conversation, the sort you do with strangers on the bus on a particularly boring day when you're feeling nice.

But that doesn't happen anymore. With the guy eating sisig, we ate in silence. The same will go with this girl. I realize this as I watch the lady behind the counter pour gravy on the girl's steak, the sizzling plate kicking in. She leaves. I take my cue to move to the right, since my order's coming next. My eyes followed her as she walked to an empty table. It wasn't the only one. I was relieved.

It's not funny how my thought process works. It's sad. I'm sad.

I ended up eating in another one of those tables for six. A woman, pudgy and bespectacled, came up to me. "Can I sit?" she'd ask, and I'd nod, and she'd nod back, and I watch her not eat the crust of her pizza while I struggle slicing my medium rare steak with a blunt knife. It took me thirty minutes to eat, an unusually long time.

I passed by the girl again as I returned to the office. She's still having lunch. She's with someone now. Her mother, I think. She pretty conservative, the complete opposite, but she also has Sue Sylvester hair.

"I disabled my Facebook account for a week, not because I know you will tag me. I'm trying to avoid someone else."

I'm not sure if it's in straight English, but considering we talked two-thirds of the way in English I might as well take that observation to heart.

And no, no names. That was the loophole.

I think I broke a couple of conventions last night.

One, a guy is supposed to be the one to spend. "When you're meeting someone," she quoted a friend, "don't spend your own money. Don't bring your own car." She didn't bring her own car, but she spent on everything. "I'll buy you hot choco from Seattle's Best," she said last week, in an attempt to bribe me for something I didn't really need to be bribed for.

So she did spend her money, in part because I don't really go to Seattle's Best. "The nearest to my office is at Tektite," I said. "To our house, at Festival." In straight English, although we don't really have to. "I've been writing in English for years, so it just happens," I said. She treated me to this mug of hot chocolate. She'd call it a safe choice.

Two, a guy is not supposed to dominate the conversation. I don't feel comfortable already telling all these stories about myself. I remembered what I read last week, again on Esquire: "Just be quiet. Please. For her. Stare into her eyes and be quiet."

"I don't have much to talk about anyway," she texted me the morning before. "I'm the listener type. Even if it doesn't look that way."

It doesn't. The stereotype goes like this: someone from the south who you'd probably find in a bar. She admitted that.

But it's not as comfortable to be the one asking questions. There will be, of course, some things that you are not supposed to go to. The compromise was the very thing I didn't want to do: dominate the conversation. I was the one telling those little anecdotes about work, and she'd be the one listening, at least until I'd realize I'm saying too much, during which I'd stop and just stare into her eyes and be quiet. And she'd talk.

The thing is, I'm not supposed to overthink this. "I am socially inept," I said, well aware that I'd never use that description on myself, especially when pitted against certain people. Only I now think things are the other way around. Certain people do better than I do, which is why I was the one who had to be invited to coffee, rather than the other way around. Heck, I'm probably so anxious of everything that I can't even invite my friends to spontaneous things on weekends. Too many thoughts on my mind. But I might as well make the most of it.

We left at around nine, I think. She took the MRT from Makati to Ortigas, and my shuttles home are gone at this time, so I figured we'd both take the bus. Along the way we'd talk about her being anything other than human, or being somebody on the fringe. Say, some Satan worshipper who has to offer a sacrifice, like chickens, or as I suggested, turkeys. The sacrifice is in the importation. Or, you can write "turkey" on our chickens.

"Philippine turkeys."

"Midget turkeys."

"I like that."

We got to the other side of the road, and I realized there's still a shuttle waiting. Three, a guy is not supposed to leave a girl hanging. But I was selfish, or sleepy, so I pretty much did. I told her I've got my shuttle there, but I tried to find her a bus, and she found herself one, and we hurriedly said goodbye. I turned back, only to see the shuttle leave the terminal.

"You shooed me away," she'd text.

"Babalikan sana kita, eh."

"It will take you up to eleven?"

It did take me up to eleven, but at least I got home.

Four, a guy is supposed to say thank you, especially with the circumstances that saw him defy all of the conventions of proper social interactions. I really should rethink calling certain people socially inept. Provided it still matters, that is.

I'm just halfway through the long weekend and already I feel like I've run out of things to read.

I only have so many magazines to tackle, and all of them have already been tackled several times. You can imagine me holding last month's issue of Esquire, not knowing what to do with it, since I've already read the feature on Fort Hood, and I've already read the feature on Roger Ebert, and I've already learned that women are generally hard to understand, at least according to Anna Torv, whose four-page spread is the only reason I bought the issue in the first place. Which reminds me: I should never scroll down.

So, slumped on the sofa in the living room at forty-five past three, I ended up reading through the ads at the very end of the magazine. You know, the sort that looks cheaply done, the sort that gets sandwiched between the shopping information pages and the little blurbs at the very last page, the sort that sells vacuum cleaners and sporting paraphernalia and, in this particular case, a mail-order bride service. "Men, post your profile free! Let women write to you first! Receive hundreds of letters! Women from Brazil, Ukraine, Philippines" - and then I imagine a maid from one of the swanky subdivisions sneaking into the family computer, browsing through this website, and I feel sad.

One of the ads was for this little bottle of unscented pheromones. You supposedly mix it with your fragrance and wear it daily, and it should last for four to six months. You should not think they're full of bullshit because the product was supposedly created by one of the doctors who discovered human pheromones. I always thought the person was older. And male. Or I'm being a misogynist. Or I fail to remember that I'm reading a men's magazine.

What caught my attention, though, was the testimonial on the ad. This one supposedly comes from a guy who works in the film industry and, naturally, is surrounded by lots of "attractive" women. Yes, he had to point that out. Attractive women.

"A lot of them are touchy-feely, but even those who weren't normally, became touchy-feely. Becky, for example, shocked me. She came up behind me and put her arms around me and said into my ear: 'what is it about you?'"

Maybe these guys are full of bullshit - this testimonial reads too well. Too well, in fact, that I actually imagined the scenario this customer is giving. So this guy's named Jack. He's based in Los Angeles, and he works in the film industry, so he can't look like a geek with no fashion sense. I mean, he's in Los Angeles! If my friends there are to be believed it's full of people who live for appearances. He should, at least, look sharp, maybe in well-coordinate outfits that look effortless but actually took hours, maybe matching outfits or reading something like Esquire.

I guess it's also safe to presume that the Becky girl also looks sharp. No, she can't be the slightly slutty type, the sort who wears cleavage-baring outfits and dark-framed glasses. But she can't be someone as homey-looking as, say, Alia Shawkat. Let's just say she's the sort who constantly holds a clipboard and is slightly pretty - slightly, because you wouldn't give much thought to it until she comes to you and virtually hugs you and goes, "what is it about you?"

Not unlike me, of course. I don't work in an industry surrounded by attractive women - yes, we have our fair share, duh, but it's not a prerequisite. And I can get away with not looking sharp. I can come to work wearing my Doy shirt and nobody will notice me, either because I look too bad to be noticed, or nobody would be there to nitpick my shirt choice, going, "kilala mo ba talaga si Doy Del Mundo?"

But with that setting, would I be able to get the same results as that Jack dude? I'll need a fragrance to mix those pheromones into. Yes, I wear some sort of fragrance to work, although I'm terribly inconsistent with it, and by the time I get to work it feels like I'm not actually wearing anything anymore. And then there's the matter of the ladies coming near me - because the idea of attractive women going near you for no inexplicable reason only happens on television commercials. And I don't think ladies would leap to my desk just because there's something about me. I don't really get along with everyone. How would you expect everyone to suddenly go near you, much more start hugging you like you're a lifeboat and say "ang gwapo mo pala, Henrik, bakit ngayon ko lang napansin?"

In the first place, who is Jack? Is he some dorky figure who never gets any of the action? Is he someone who's pretty good socially but felt he needed the push - his pick-up lines are shit, for example - and suddenly had some little vial of liquid doing all the work for him? Is he attractive? Because really, if the ladies are touchy-feely with him, then there must be something that's there, only not as serious, or as chemical-triggered, as it is post-application. It will not work for me, because I'm not attractive, because I do not look sharp and because nobody is interested in me in the first place. I look yucky even if I'm not. I look like someone who can't break someone's heart because I'm incapable of getting one in the first place. I look like someone who'll stutter my way to oblivion.

Or am I? Maybe I'm a sweet talker. Maybe I do have a way around the ladies. Maybe I do have a sense of respect, or at least courteousness. Maybe I still dress sharp, only with my flabs showing in the worst of places. Maybe I am attractive, or at least vaguely attractive - not in the way these magazines suggest, because they'll tell you not to reveal everything on your blog, and not to put too much salt on your steak, and to have good posture while wearing tailor-made outfits that don't have an off-stripe somewhere. Anything, perhaps, to make me someone that at least Alia Shawkat will notice. And considering she's an actress who played Maeby on Arrested Development, it's going to be a hell lot of work.

That pheromone ad is bullshit.