"Ortigas right now?" Michelle tweeted. "A scene right out of War of the Worlds."

I looked out to the window in my office. Yes, I have access to the window again, and while the view isn't really inspiring - it's just a wall - it's still helpful. When I'm not sure about the weather, I just look out and determine whether I should bring an umbrella or not. Then again, it's sometimes a matter of remembering to look out of the window, probably because I haven't had access to the window for more than a year. For the past two weeks I had to climb up for that umbrella.

Anyway, Michelle's tweet. I looked out to the window in my office. It's already five in the afternoon, but the skies look like it's already six. It's raining terribly hard. I could figure out that much, since it's really, really dark outside.

"It's so dark outside, it's crazy!" she told me. "I can't see the office window. Like someone boarded it up."

Indeed, that was the case. I started hearing about really low visibility in the Makati area, and naturally, the floods that came after. I texted my dad, wondering if I could go home with him: he wasn't in his office, so I'll have to take the shuttles home. I worried about having to walk out of the office, wearing a jacket, holding an umbrella, and still getting really, really wet.

And then I go out of the building at six in the evening, and the rain has died down. It's still dark, but it's not as dark as it was earlier. Sensibly, I only had my umbrella out.

The same thing happened the next day. "Ortigas war of the worlds again," she tweeted. I look outside, and the scenario was the same as the day before: it's as dark as night time, except for the occasional lightning. This time, there weren't any reports of low visibility in Makati. More importantly, I wasn't texting my dad.

"From where I am it just looks dark," I told her.

"It was darker earlier," she said. "Not so bad now."

I don't think I even brought out my umbrella.

There's something weird about the rainy season this year. It isn't raining hard. I remember leaving the office a month ago, wondering about what will happen when June rolls along. It'll start raining terribly again, and I'll trudge my way through the usual sidewalks, hopelessly perhaps, since my pants will get wet anyway. Human weather report wet. Instead, we get drizzles just when you prepare for the worst. So far, at least.

The other weird thing about the rainy season this year is the prevalence of thunderstorms. Many times it doesn't rain, or at least it doesn't where I am. I'll just see flashes of light from the sky, popping in and out quite often. I'll walk the usual sidewalks (without an umbrella) and I'll see a lightning bolt from out of nowhere, and I'll wonder if it'll rain as I walk. It doesn't happen until I'm close to sleeping.

A couple of weeks back thunder struck the front of our house. And by that, I mean an actual lightning bolt hitting the hood of our car, with sparks visible from the window of our house. It's strong enough to trigger the burglar alarm of another car. It's scary enough to have the entire family turn off most of the electricity in the house, for five minutes at least. In my case, it's also scary enough to give me these thoughts while walking out on the streets, fresh from the store: what if lightning kills me right now?

Lightning doesn't hit the same place twice, after all. Or so they say. It hasn't struck our home before, and since I have sixty years of life to live - I arrived at that figure, assuming I'm having my quarterlife crisis right now - there's enough time for me to be killed by lightning. Not that it's got me cowering whenever it happens, though. Well, maybe when Michelle's metaphors actually mean something once I leave the office.

"Samahan mo ako sa car wash," my dad told me.

I was a little scared. It's been two years since I took up driving lessons, and during those years I haven't been on the steering wheel often. The farthest I've been without a driving instructor was, say, ten kilometers from our house - and I still struggled with parking, particularly because I have knee-jerk reactions.

But, since the family now has three vehicles to take care of - my mom's car, my dad's company car, and a SUV we bought last week - my dad figured I should accompany him more often, so we can have two cars washed at the same time. We could've done it before. Well, we did, but only once.

I didn't need to panic, because I still have my basic driving knowledge intact. That, and the car wash wasn't really far: it was just a few streets away, smack in the middle of our subdivision, on the main road, in front of the main recreation area, or what we conveniently called the plaza. My drive took half a song on the radio.

There were a lot of cars queued up, so after I struggled with parking again - knee-jerk reactions, again - I took a stroll on the plaza. It wasn't much different from when I first saw it, as a five-year-old who thought it was paradise. There was a simple playground, with two sets of monkey bars and three swings: I'd often go there whenever my mom goes to the neighborhood market. But I enjoyed the concrete walkways the most, since they resembled the city maps I enjoyed looking at as a kid. Sixteen years later, they don't seem too exciting, since the grass has grown around it - neglected, regrettably - and I have, too. You can't swing in monkey bars that's two-thirds of your height, not that I ever did when it was twice as tall as me.

There was also a basketball court nearby, although I never went there alone as a kid. It felt like a very forbidding place: tall basketball ring, many square feet of concrete, and teenagers playing most of the time. The few times I've been there was with family - mine, and hundreds of others.

Each year, my old school held this big event. Family Day was one March sunday where families of students would mingle with each other, usually over games, but often over each class' performances. Field demonstrations, they called it. We'd spend five weeks practicing during our PE classes, during which our usual teacher was taken over by this choreographer - Michael was his name, I think, if I remember the name stitched on his custom-made green jogging pants. He was intimidating but we knew he knew his stuff.

I actually dreaded Family Day. Yes, I enjoyed it, partly because there'd be no classes the Monday after, but getting there was quite a chore. We'd wear these costumes early in the morning and assemble at the school grounds, which was certainly packed. "Huwag kang pagpapawisan" is a common instruction, and an impossible one: we're packed, it's a Sunday, and we're going to a parade from the school to the plaza. And then you'd stand in the sun, waiting anxiously for your turn to perform. But once you finish, you feel really satisfied. You don't have to feel anxious about screwing up anymore.

The other thing I enjoyed are the welcome speeches, this ritual at the start of each Family Day, where each class president will stand on stage and deliver a speech. I only got to do this once - maybe twice, since I remember being elected class president twice, in a fascinating yet innocent microcosm of Philippine politics - and I clearly remember the first word I told the crowd: "Quiet!"

The point, in hindsight, was that it offered the school's whole family - administrators, teachers, other staff, students, and their families - time together. It felt tedious back then - big basketball court, long walks under the sun, all those costumes - but it was a day when we all just enjoyed each other's company. For the most part, it worked: while I can attribute a part of it to my being barely ten, my elementary years were some of the best years of my life. It was mostly the reason why I, a cynical high school student, watched the school celebrate its tenth year - no longer a Family Day per se, but more of a long play staged at the theater at Zobel, still packed with many people.

I remember feeling bad back then. I could've stayed in that school and not have to go through the crap that was my first three months in an intimidating high school environment. I could've stayed and seen my face in the glossy souvenir program - they're going big time and I'm not part of it! I'm one of the original students and I'm not part of it!

At the end of the presentation, all of the students - at least those who took part in the play - went up the stage. The principal, Mrs. Guiriba, talked at length about family. "This is the Mother Theresa School family," I remember her saying. "The students, old and new, and you," referring to the parents, and pretty much everybody else.

Earlier that day, we met, and she - the woman who often told me about the virtues of self-control, even before I was diagnosed with ADHD - gave me a tight hug.

There was this song we were taught in school. Surely you were also taught Welcome to the Family, complete with actions. Walking through the plaza, with its overgrown grass and a new set of teenagers playing ball, I started humming the tune, the lyrics already at the tip of the tongue. And then I finally remembered.

Welcome to the family. We're glad that you have come to share your life with us as we grow in love. And may we always be to you what God would have us be: a family always there to be strong and to lean on.

Clenched fists. Lean to the side.

As I went home - I went first, since my car, which isn't really my car, was finished first - I wondered where it all went. You know, that feeling of satisfaction? There I was, dealing with my knee-jerk reactions, and wondering why the car wash people turned my wipers on, and anxious about driving the car. I have seven months left on my driving license, and two years of work experience, and a whole decade of life since I graduated from elementary, and I'm wondering why it all got so complicated. And I was still humming the song, trying not to act out the actions, since I had my hands on the steering wheel. I figured, we all have to move on.

I remember myself as a six-year-old, always excited whenever the family heads home from somewhere when night falls. I'd stay awake unless I absolutely can't fight it, looking forward to pass by the major roads, just so I can see all the neon billboards in action.

Remember those? You'd begin at the Magallanes interchange and go through the SLEX, ending at the Alabang exit, and there'd be a lot of those blinking lights. One moment it says one thing, and the next it says another - that other thing, you won't see in the middle of the day. Everything, from cars to appliances to banks, were well-represented, and the younger me enjoyed watching the logos swoosh, sort of, from the sky and end where it's supposed to be. I know I'm not saying these things properly, but I trust you get my drift.

They ended up being an outlet for the hyperactivity that proved to be my downfall as I grew old. I don't fall asleep that easily, so I end up looking at those lights and being amazed every time. During the day, I'd pretend that my fingers were those lights, imitating the actions I'd see. I'm fidgety, and my parents say I look like a retard when I do so.

"Anong tawag dun?" I once asked my mom, back when I had so many questions.

"Commercial lights," she said.

Of course, they aren't called commercial lights. Neon billboards. That's what they're called. Neon billboards, the sort that'd look straightforward during the day, only to blink like there's no tomorrow when it gets dark. They've become relics of my childhood in the early 1990s, when they gave way to tarpaulins that can squeeze in more text - and, crucially, photos - but lack the bang factor that the old ones had. They're fun to look at initially, but after passing by the same roads ten times a week it loses impact. They no longer make me go "may bagong commercial lights!"

Maybe it's because neon got so expensive. Or environmentally-unfriendly. Maybe they just fell out of fashion. Really, the idea of a person's silhouette designed like neon lights is so kitschy 1980s. Or, we decided we'll all stop having fun. It's been, what, sixteen years?

I'm suffering from burnout in the past few weeks. Gone are the days when I'd go home, proud that I've done something relatively groundbreaking. I just head home pissed and sleepy, and increasingly so with every passing day. I don't stare out the windows anymore. I stopped caring.

Earlier today, I was texting Valerie. Or maybe it was the other way around. I'm not really sure. Anyway, our conversation meant I didn't fall asleep inside the shuttle, since I'd hold on to my phone rather than slide it in my pocket every now and then. I noticed a new billboard being put up near the Sucat exit, only it's quite incomprehensible - until I realized it's supposed to be a beer bottle that tilts to the left, pouring out its contents to a mug (it's printed on tarpaulin), bubbles coming out of it.

It's a neon billboard.

I smiled. I really smiled. Unfortunate, knowing both the billboard and that facial expression wasn't to last.

It's a holiday yesterday. Not surprisingly, there were a lot of people in the malls, me included.

But surprisingly, there were a lot of people in hair salons and barber shops. I went to the mall yesterday to get a hair cut, and hopefully, get a foot spa. I did the former effortlessly. The latter? Not successful: there were just a lot of people.

So I ended up walking around. Imagine walking around the mall in circles for two hours, armed only with your pair of earphones. You can only check out so many books at the bookstore. Or, as it also happens, so many frozen items in the grocery.

I tried to return to the parlor, busy listening to whatever song was playing, when I heard someone call my name. I was taking a shortcut of sorts - through Rustan's instead of through the main corridor - when I realized that, to my right, there was Arlene, who looked oddly professional despite the holiday. Must be the glasses.

"So what are you up to?" she said.

"I'm... trying to make the most of my holiday," I answered.

"No, I mean, what do you do for work?"

"Oh, I write."

"That's good! At least you're doing something you're happy with."

Yeah, right, but one, I'm feeling a little stuck right now, and two, if I was happy with writing then I shouldn't be feeling this way. I mean, I can write - not necessarily for work, but it bleeds out - about what I feel but everybody else will say, "no, you can't be involved, you have to be a fly in the wall or something." So what are you going to do again?

I felt oddly bad when Arlene first called my name. For some reason, I had this urge to hug her, which I did. Like, relatively, or really, tight hug. And then that conversation. But apparently she was waiting for the guy in front of her to finish, and the conversation was cut short, before I could even ask about how she's doing. "I have to go to the ATM," she said. "See you around!"

I just waved her goodbye and walked back to the bookstore, figuring that the salon was still full of people. It was when I returned. I did not get a foot spa. I spent a couple more hours wandering aimlessly, feeling bad.

Am I the only one who finds these little conversations your grandfathers make amusing yet scary?

Sure, they're really doing it to endear themselves to their grandchildren, especially when they're just six years old or something. Besides, you don't always see each other: these encounters always happen within a family reunion, often over the holidays.

That's not exactly the case with the mother's side of the family. Since their house is closer - they used to live in Parañaque, and later they moved to Bacoor - we often visit. But my maternal grandfather wasn't always there: he worked as an engineer, or so I figured, and he was often away. When he's home, though, and we're there for a visit, he'd ask us to go to him.

"Ilang taon ka na?" he'd ask.

"Ten," I'd answer.

"Anong grade ka na?"

"Grade four."

I'm not sure if I was in the fourth grade by then. My math has failed me, which should make me a little failure in front of my grandfather, if not for the fact that before he died four years ago he cheated on my grandmother, bore a child, and cheated on her mistress, too.

My paternal grandfather is a different case. He's still happily married to my grandmother, still living in that little flood-prone house in Caloocan. We don't have that sort of conversation, despite the fact that we don't visit as often. There'd be occasional exchanges of memories from years gone by: it'd often be about how much better things were when Ferdinand Marcos was president.

But the past few times we met, he asked me one question I didn't expect him to ask.

"Ilang taon ka na, Niko?" he'd ask.

"Twenty-one," I answered.

"May girlfriend ka na?"

"Wala."

That's the sort of questions aunts ask. I have an aunt who often asked me that question, and then raise all the girls I had a crush on back in elementary school. But that's because aunts are made, by nature I suppose, to be a little meddling. Your grandparents are supposed to sit back and make the most of the time they had left.

Then again, my grandfather isn't that sort of person. When he reached the mandatory retirement age, he went back to his former employer and applied again. I think he still has a job now. Anyway, upon hearing that I'm still single, he pulled out his mobile phone and attempted to give me someone's mobile number. Yes, my grandfather tried to hook me up with someone.

And I politely refused. Or was I polite? I was, yes, but maybe to him, I wasn't. How dare I break the heart of a 79-year-old man?

He raised the matter again when we went to Zambales. We were there for his birthday - that's when he turned 79, something I remember because of the birthday candles that never got used - and he asked me the same questions. Yes, I'm twenty-one, and yes, I don't have a girlfriend.

"Eh twenty-one ka na," he said. "Dapat mag-asawa ka na para bago ako pumanaw eh meron na akong apo sa tuhod."

Setting aside the fact that what he just said was the most morbid thought I ever had in a while, he already has great-grandchildren. My oldest cousin has three kids: the oldest is already 14, and the youngest is six, or maybe five. I don't know. Shame, because I'm his godfather.

But still. I'm just 21. Am I supposed to get married already? I suppose he's coming from somewhere - my parents got married at that age - but I'm not exactly the person he should be talking to about it. Between me and my oldest cousin, there are three men. So, four chances of having great-grandchildren - and one of them already has three!

And our generation is quite different. Or, at least, my demographic is. I know some people have kids at 21, or younger - it's the Quinn Fabray situation before I called it the Quinn Fabray situation - but my bunch have other thoughts. Enjoy life while you're single, some might say. Save up before you start a family, others might say. Romance? Bullshit, I'd say.

During one of the days when I had to take three rides home rather than one - I think this was during my meet-up with Gwen - I bumped into Earl. He was my classmate in elementary school, and I remember us both being excited about being Capricorns, since he was born on Christmas.

"Kamusta na?" he said.

"Okay lang," I answered, quite timidly.

"May asawa ka na?"

And then I thought, why are you asking me this? We were born just a year apart, and now you're asking me if I'm married? And then I remember hearing that he already has a child.

A month or so later, I heard from Facebook that Tracy, one of my closer friends in college, already has a child. I just saw Kizia congratulate her. I didn't know anything. Not that I should know, but - and my thought went like this - you were pregnant nine months and we didn't know? And then I remembered the bus rides we shared from school and back, when we'd have the usual relationship fodder.

And here I am, a 21-year-old, single, and half-constantly answering questions about whether I already have a girlfriend. Not that I have to have one. But it still means having to answer all those questions, during which you start thinking that, yes, maybe you should get married and have a child. Cue another set of uncertainties, definitely including what my grandfather did before he died.

"Niko! Lunch?"

"Yes, fucking please, yes."

Clarence couldn't have come in at a better time. I was having a bad day yesterday. (Then again, when didn't I have a bad day?) Ironic, because I was just writing about the Glee season finale, which should be a high point of my week. I was annoyed that technology is getting in the way again, and more so because I was forced back to my original desk, beside the fuckwits. Watching them laugh at Facebook games while I type is understandably crappy, and for me, exaggeratedly so.

Thinking that they're actually planning this stupid team-building lunch makes my blood boil even more.

"Anong silbi ng team-building kung walang team na i-bi-build?" I told her as we walked to the mall, going to my usual tirade about those fuckwits not giving a damn about my existence unless they need the numbers, which is rarely. I don't really wanna explain it right now. I just cried over it this morning.

Still, we both figured I needed to get out of the office and have some fresh air. Conversation works fine, too. We settled down, talked about things, some of which I've already forgotten about. But I'm sure I explained to her the rules of the new So You Think You Can Dance season, and maybe squeed a bit about certain people. To be exact, celebrities, in case you'll misinterpret me.

"Oo nga," I told Clarence. "Inisip ko kanina, 'isasama kaya ni Clarence si Mara?' Eh wala namang binanggit sakin, so I thought, hindi siguro. Hindi nga."

"Ayaw daw niyang maglakad," she explained, adding that she's checking out a condominium somewhere in the Ortigas area that same day.

"Mas malayo naman yung lalakarin niya nun," I answered.

I find it a little interesting that Clarence and I have been talking a little bit about Mara lately. Well, they're colleagues. No surprise there. But they didn't really know each other when we were all still in college. And, if I'm to mention Mara in a conversation, I'd probably be talking to Les or Mon.

"I'll tell her that on Facebook," I said.

I passed by her Facebook profile a few days ago. For some reason, the website thought it should reconnect the two of us. Her face was on my profile for five days or so, on the friends part of the page.

I didn't tell that to Clarence, though. After checking the record store if the third Glee CD is already in stock - the search was unsuccessful - we walked back to her office, talking about how men will be objectified in the future when women start categorizing them by how large their penises are. Yes, I have crazy tangents. And yes, I shared that with a woman, which makes me an unattractive prospect. No surprise.

I got back to the office feeling reasonably better, although the fact that everything that annoy me is still there, well, annoyed me. My back started to hurt again. If only I could move desks on that basis alone, I would. But knowing I'm a blip everybody's profiting from, I doubt it.

I went home at six. There are two revolving doors at the fifth floor, leading to the MRT station. I walk fast, so I kinda overtook someone, slightly rudely, I think. I think the person looked at me, and I looked at the person, and while I got nothing I had this rush of memories from earlier that day.

"Di ba Parañaque siya?"

"Pasay. LRT, tapos MRT, tapos pedicab."

"Bakit ayaw mong maglakad, Mara?"

"Oh, hi!"

I think Facebook was really trying to do something. And destiny, more so. I found it amusing in an innocent way. And so we talked about her condo visit, and her not wanting to walk, although I swear I didn't understand half the conversation thanks to my earphones, which makes me an unattractive prospect. No surprise.

We waved goodbye, and I somehow couldn't resist the urge to grab her arm.

"No, not my fatty arm!"

"Kaysa naman yung un-fatty arm. You'll get strangled."

The following day - that'd be today - I finally found that Glee CD.

It was the second term of freshman year, and I vividly remember eating a chicken burger at McDonald's. Jason and Cuyeg were there. Kevin and Icka were there, too. Maybe Sudoy, too. I think Ian was also there, although when he dropped out of DLSU I somehow forgot some of the places he's been in with me.

My point is this: they comprised my very first lunch group in college.

Catch is, I don't have an origin story. For some reason I just ended up eating lunch with them. I don't know if it's Icka's charms (inside reference!) or my surprising affinity with Jason. All I know is, for a week or so, I was eating lunch with them, something that culminated in all of us, plus a few others, shooting our since-muted El Filibusterismo-meets-Backstreet Boys video.

It was much later when I'd put two and two together. Or, actually, I still haven't. Back in college I was this obnoxious kid who popped up everywhere looking for a conversation, which meant I was nosy enough to pick up a few running gags. Like that boy band named Mango, which I always thought was a brainchild of Cuyeg and Nico, which first popped up when we all rehearsed for the Dance-a-Parable contest.

It's funny how people bond because of a shared hatred of certain people.

Blockmates, you surely remember Jom, right? No? Right, that was the very point. If there was a guy more obnoxious than I was, it was him. Unfortunately, I do remember him for three things: for thinking I'm gay, and saying that it's okay to admit it; for spoiling the ending of the sixth Harry Potter book in front of our whole Miss Sangil class, and for boasting about being shot and surviving. Or being chased around by a guy with a gun, I don't know.

Icka also told me about a moment involving a photo of him in his underwear. Apart from the fact that it's not a pretty sight - he flexes his muscles a lot but doesn't have much to show - the specific details of our conversation has been lost in the many Siobhan Magnus-related conversations we've had in the past month.

Simply said, he was the guy the whole block loved to hate. I didn't like him too, solely because of the "it's okay to be gay" comment he made, but I'd like to think that I tried to understand him. After all, I considered myself an outsider for most of my college life, so I tried not to stab him (deservingly, perhaps) in the back among friends. I just watched as they picked apart every facet of his annoying behavior.

Eventually we became classmates in sociology class, and I tried my best to stay away from him - he was on to me, going, "blockmates have to help each other out!" knowing that I'm a smart guy and we're all deblocked and he can't rely on Les - pretty much like when I publicly dismissed him during CWTS sessions, demanding I get Ian as a partner again.

Bottom line is, we pushed someone out of our circle and, at the same time, we made our circle stronger. Might as well be a reality among cliques, one that I didn't really subscribe to. No, I'm not clearing my name - I must've forgotten, but that is the point of this blog - but isn't it interesting to think that, in order to be close to certain people, we put other people down? I know very well of groups of people - I won't mention specifics - who bonded over their hatred of certain people. You know, someone reacts negatively, or someone cheats their way out of a scheduling conflict. Or you just know the object and was willing to be a sounding board.

Come to think of it, I made friends the same way, too, although it didn't go well with me eventually. It's like pandering to a crowd.

Heaven knows how many people bonded over their shared hatred of me.