One of the saddest things I heard in my life came during my first year in college. One of my friend - I won't reveal names - was dumped by the woman he loved, just as he admitted his feelings to her. What made it particularly painful was what happened after: he found himself shut out of his circle of friends, which is definitely not something you usually think of when two people start acting awkwardly after feelings are revealed. But I didn't know much then, so I thought it was vaguely plausible.

It took a couple of weeks before I learned that story. By then, I noticed that he went from this really cheerful guy to a dejected loner, his gentle optimism trying hard to bust out of that really big downer. I finally asked him about what happened, and he finally told me the whole story. And then he had this really stark observation.

"Siya kasi yung tipong tao na kapag nagsawa na sa'yo, aalis na lang," he said of the girl, who also happened to be my friend. Suddenly, things weren't as simple as boy admits feelings, girl gets awkward.

Ideally relationships are supposed to last forever, unless something really unacceptable (whatever that means) happens. But the idea of someone ending a friendship because he has exhausted its purpose - now that's quite an iffy thought. Last time I checked, you don't make friendships because you need something from the person, perhaps apart from that sense of satisfaction, because that's a given in everything. And even if you make friendships for gratification, it eventually grows into something stronger, and your initial intentions are forgotten.

A few years back I had this conversation with Ella, that friend who I met during my radio geek days. I don't remember what happened along the way, but somehow we both felt our friendship had run its course. I don't even remember what I told her - something like "let's not talk for a while", maybe while I was doing some school work - and she obliged, somehow getting the hint that there's nothing left for us to do, at least at the time.

"Okay," she said. Again, I'm not sure what she exactly said. "I'll see you around, I guess."

"Okay," I said. "See you, ate."

I think I mentioned it here already, but I'll mention it anyway: I called her ate, because she's older than me by a few years, and she called me bunso, even if I wasn't really the youngest person she met. I guess she liked the sound of it.

"Just call me Ella," she said.

What have I just done? I thought. What I did was, to put it extremely, virtually cut ties with her. Well, we didn't really cut ties - we were still friends on Facebook - we didn't talk for a while. I guess we got busy, with her returning to school and me plunging head first into thesis. There are times when I wanted to catch up with her, but I felt either awkward, or that she's moved on from our friendship and doesn't have time to exchange pleasantries with someone she knew before, judging from the one time she didn't reply when I said "hi" on her wall or something.

That's the sucky thing when you do this sort of plunge. Once you've moved on, you'll have a really hard time reconnecting, even if you really try, even if there's a lot to work with from the past. Eventually you get tired of trying, and realize that you have to move on yourself. But it still feels terrible.

You've probably heard her on the radio on weekends. Exactly my point.

Ideally friendships are supposed to last forever, unless something really unacceptable (whatever that means) happens. They're supposed to be around when you feel like you can't stand up anymore, regardless of distance or importance, provided there's time to do it. Sure, things will move around as time passes by, and you'll pay attention to different things when you realize that you should care for yourself more than anything else, but those ties don't exist for nothing, even if you haven't used them for ten years.

But when they suddenly exist for nothing, never mind all the fun you've had with it for the past, I don't know, five years or so, what exactly do you do?

One of the truest things Icka told me - this was during one of those online conversations during idle hours at work - was somewhere along the lines of "you always look out for yourself." (With further research, the actual quote was this: "Maybe deep down inside you have feelings for her, but you value yourself more. Like, it only matters if you feel a certain way because it makes you feel good. She's just there to trigger the feeling." Obviously it had something to do with those mental exercises Cha's asking me to do.) Sure, that suggests that I also start friendships, or at least attempt to start them, because they have a purpose - to make me feel good - but I'd like to think that I don't pull the plug when I already feel good. I mean, pull the plug, and you don't feel so good anymore, never mind if there's something else that puts a smile on your face and keeps you preoccupied. We all still need that someone to come home to at the end of the day, and that doesn't have an expiry date.

Lately I realized that one of my friends, one that I held dearly, has decided that I've fulfilled the purpose. She's happy, and very much preoccupied, and she doesn't need me anymore. So, after she decided not to answer every hello I had, she decided to delete me from her lists. I hoped it could be fixed, but after four weeks of waiting (and a few things, too) I decided to pull the plug myself. And then I became the bad guy. But really, I'm just looking out for myself, because I don't want a friendship that's effectively dead to drag me down. I guess I'm just tired of being friends with someone who treats me as a "lesser" friend, just because she's found a new cloud to perch herself on.

And yet, the moment I pulled the plug, after taking a while to realize that I don't really have a choice, I felt terrible. I felt absolutely terrible.

"Tell me. Do I fail at flirting because I don't know when I do?"

"I'm really bad at flirting. You shouldn't ask me about that. Most of my guy friends think I'm a guy. Actually, I think at some point you did, too."

"I don't even know how to flirt. That, and girls flirting, err... iffy? Or am I stuck in a time warp?"

"I think I'm also stuck, if you're stuck."

"Why aren't we closer? See. Fail."

"Gosh. You just made me realize how shitty I am."

"But you're with someone. What makes you shitty if you have someone and I don't?"

"That's the worst part of it. I have someone. And I still don't know how to flirt."

"You don't have to, because you have someone! See? I'm a bigger failure. You snagged someone. I haven't. That's all that matters."

"But you have options of snagging more people. I'm... I don't know."

"Ability? Do I have the ability?"

"I still suck."

"I suck more. I fall for taken people. Or people afraid of commitments."

"I think everyone's afraid of commitment."

"Some more so than others, leaving the needy people lonelier."

"Shet. Di ko alam irereply ko... like I said before, a thousand times over, in the perfect time. I guess."

"I guess I'm just really, really lonely."

"Maybe it's time to start being happy!"

"No comment? Err, I actually think I can't be. Especially with... stuff. All the people I like. They're always saying no. Not necessarily like like, but the people I just like. Eventually they turn their backs, and that's why I'm afraid of making new friends now. One's now a self-righteous bitch, while the other's pretty much forgotten that I exist. And you? I might lose you sooner or later."

"Naaah. I'm usually the one that people left behind."

The conversation certainly felt one-sided, never mind that all of us we're probably tired from the hysteria. Lau could hear us perfectly, which meant that every comment we had made its way to Sydney. Yes, even the side comments we made in jest, the very comments that should be whispered, only to be later exposed and laughed about. For some reason the revelations felt a little heavier. The laughter that followed after was, inevitably, heavier too.

I guess we just missed Lau, and she just missed us a lot. It's been a while since she flew to Australia to study - I didn't even know until she was there - and while she's been on Skype with other friends over the months, this was perhaps one of the few times when she saw six people on the other end rather than just one. In this case, it was me, Jackie, Jill, John, Malia and Sara, the only six people who made it to the block reunion. Sure, us two guys might have been extras, but I figure Lau still appreciated the appearance.

Lau was seated comfortably in front of her PC, wearing the jacket Malia gave her, and as expected, a comfortable pair of headphones that made her privy to everything we said. On the other hand, we couldn't hear her, as we were in a fairly noisy coffee shop: she typed in her reactions to those jokes we made, bringing in the big letters when she felt like laughing out loud, never mind that we could see her almost fall down from her chair.

Despite the hitches, it worked. It really worked. Jackie's plans for a reunion were pretty big: she invited everyone she could invite, and we got thirteen commitments before the original date. But we planned this thing months in advance; inevitably people had "prior commitments" and skipped the event without even changing their status. But the six people - four of which meet a lot, for the most part - pretty much made the most of it, and throw in a seventh who's been out of the loop for ages, and you have an actual reunion.

I couldn't help but feel a little resentful last night, though. I guess it's me having latched all hopes on this reunion, in part because I don't really have much social participations in the circles I'm in. I might've forgotten my tendency to feel isolated in anything I do anyway: even block reunions end with me just looking on and listening. But, in Jackie's words, "at least, hindi kami tulad ng mga ka-opisina mo."

However, even she couldn't hide her dismay. She probably didn't feel as much as I did - explain my tweet, then - but among the forty people we sent invites to, half didn't even confirm. Half of those who confirmed didn't end up arriving, although some had pretty valid reasons. Our first conversations when we arrived at the meeting place revolved around a few things: the others' attendance, the others' whereabouts, and whether - and I'm implying this - they even care to let us know.

I can't remember Jackie's exact quote, but her thought went like this: why do some people just leave their pasts behind?

I probably didn't get that right. Point is, they're trying to somehow run away from reconnecting with their pasts, deciding to just focus on where they are and decide they're having more fun with it.

"Baka kasi they think it's too soon," I thought. "Maybe in ten years, they'll respond."

"It could be too late," she answered.

Too late, perhaps, when the inevitable reconnection happens and we realize that there's no reunion to be had, because we're talking to completely different people. The shared memories become hazy. Or maybe I'm just a little too resentful for my own good.

Lau claimed that she is surrounded by "mature" people in Sydney, but she looked like the "birdy" Lau we knew back in college. She still had those crazy gestures, those goofy expressions and that huge grin - perhaps she kept that all in when she's surrounded by her Aussie peers, as Malia suggested, but she didn't seem all that changed either. Just the right balance. And while I'm fighting off a potential asthma attack caused by all the laughing, I'm glad that there's still a reason to catch up with certain people. Unlike others, who say no at every opportunity.

Suddenly, I understand my resentment.

"It's almost over," I told Icka yesterday. "The finale is tomorrow."

"Good job," she answered.

"Thanks?"

I wasn't really so sure of myself.

"It's tiring, though," I continued. "One entry per day, for ten days. Cheap content."

"Well, it got the attention of some people."

I wasn't really so sure what this is all about. Yes, a list of things that I found stashed in my mess of a bedroom, a history of the seven years before the last two years or so. I just thought it'd be fun. I thought it'd make some people go, "wow, you still have that?" It did, but that wasn't really my point. I guess I just felt bored or something. It's been a slow couple of months.

One day, I realized that we all live to regret. It's impossible for anybody to be happy with all the things they have done. Maybe it's the feeling that they deserve better. Maybe it's greed that powers them. Whatever the case, there's at least one thing that we look back on and go, "well, that could've gone better." Somehow, we think that'll change the way things went for us, and maybe make our present better.

And yet we look back to the past and think that it's the best thing that happened to us. Never mind that you stumbled so many times there - at least you got up and moved on. Anything but the present. When the past was your present you hated the fact that you stumbled so many times, and you felt that you're not going anywhere.

Right now, it's the belief that however fucked up college was, it's not as fucked up as work.

And then, when you get the chance to move on, you look back at this fucked up thing and realize that it's not as fucked up as where you are now. Oh, if only we could see the future.

Photo one: Even if I don't really have any use for these boxes of photo paper - I have two boxes of Shanghai and one box of Lucky - I still keep them around. It's ironic that I shot this photo with my own digital camera. That, and the fact that I don't have a dark room, and I don't really know anyone who has. Same thing goes with the course cards on top: I don't know why I have them. One is Cuyeg's, the other is Edsel's, and I'm certain one of them is Iza's. If only I remember who the other one is right now.

Photo two: I kept this piece of yellow pad paper for five years. I wrote this during one bored afternoon I spent with Ale, who was sick and had nobody to be with. (Jino, then her boyfriend, asked me to look after her.) I was supposed to post that on my blog, but it disappeared (as explained here), only to turn up a few months later, tattered and irrelevant. I planned to keep it, but I mindlessly threw it away.

Photo three: Yes, that's the newspaper article Miss Rica wrote, which used one of my photos, which happened to have me, Loui and Marcia posing with Canadian documentarian Dominic Morrissette. I still had this huge grin. I'm obviously keeping this, along with (almost) all of my journal fillers, which has autographs from bands and radio DJs and the BBC's Rico Hizon. Oh, and those expired and unused gift certificates, too.

I know I mentioned somewhere that I'm a sentimental git. I tend to keep anything that I can keep that has even the most fickle of nostalgic value. I keep text messages from people I've clashed since. I keep little gifts from people who I've almost forgotten. I keep the slightest hints of old, insignificant, unrecognized crushes.

And then there are things I didn't even know I kept. But I know that, at one point, I kept it for a reason. With storage space at a premium - we haven't conquered the moon precisely because we don't have enough room to build the things we need to make a colony - I have to let go of some of these things. Well, not without a photograph.

As I wind down these series of half-pointless photo blogs, I'll post some of the items I found in that mess that I can't quite fit into the rest of my categories. Call it a grab bag. Call it a lack of ideas. I call it one last attempt at making people go, "wow, you still have that?" Okay, maybe two last attempts.

Photo one: I had one of the flimsiest questions in college life. Will I ever get invited to a debut, considering that almost every female I know is going to turn eighteen?" I wrote. I ended up in four of them. Caresse's was this little surprise affair. Jackie's (the one on the photo) was a grander one, with the chocolate fondue, the adorable nephew and the fairy wings. Kim's was a beach-themed one, complete with Cuyeg finding himself in a not-so-sticky situation. And then there's Piyar and her party that screams "big time", thanks to the professionally-voiced audio invitation. Wait, was that it?

Photo two: Before Ariane became a minor celebrity, she was a budding host, radio presenter and songwriter. I can't remember why I have photocopied lyrics to two of her songs, though. Was it for English class? Did she perform them somewhere? I'm sure I'm not the only one who got this.

Photo three: Here's a treat to my high school classmates. (I told you we're going way back!) Before graduating, Robyn and I were tasked to do the school's first ever yearbook. We had concrete plans, and we even started collecting content, which explains these questionnaires from the ten-strong senior class that we were supposed to scan and paste on the pages. As expected, nothing happened, and I still have these, and three sets of photos, which I think I was supposed to return.

I went to college with an intention to become a writer.

It's funny how I forgot that I ever wrote that. I chanced upon that while preparing for today's installment of the spring cleaning series, one that I somehow designed to be a little poignant, since I'm writing for a living right now. It may not be for one of those prestigious publications in the country, and it may be for a company that outsourced some of its manpower to these islands to save up, but you can reasonably say that I'm still doing some decent writing.

Looking back at what Sir Doy wrote on that report I wrote a couple of years back, I realized that I'm doing the very things he suggested that I do. "Write critiques or reviews for newspapers and magazines." Well, writing for print has proven to be elusive - ask Ariane, and our attempt to try out for Supreme, which ended with some choice words from Tim Yap and the bitter realization that someone I met in college is faring much better - but I'm still writing critiques and reviews. I've complained about Siobhan Magnus' glory notes. I've expressed my amazement at how Glee did its Bohemian Rhapsody sequence in the first season finale. And I've pondered whether the CSI trilogy helped introduce viewers to Ray Langston. My conditions may not be ideal, but I'm somehow making it work.

Of course, things are different now. I'll say something along the lines of, I can't be stuck here. I'll admit, I'm willing to give up the privilege of watching some Glee episodes ahead of pretty much everything in exchange for actually going out there and writing a story - I can't just daydream of interviewing Dianna Agron, after all. But a part of me is wary: going out there is something I haven't really been good at. There are times when I look back at my final project for investigative journalism class, when I wrote an exposition piece on colorum vehicles, trying to figure out why the drivers are not taking the legal route the LTO has for them. I should've gone to the LTO office and asked questions. I should've spent a day with one of these shuttle drivers. Then again, I didn't know better two years ago.

I suddenly remembered my chance encounter with Miss Bacalla more than a year ago. We met at the Shang, and we talked about my work and my plans for the future. She suggested that I pursue a career in the media if money is not an object to me. And, if I decide to do so, I can ask her for a recommendation. I haven't done either. (Yes, Carlo, I still haven't had the time to email your friend.) And I'm afraid the window has closed on me. And I'm growing wary of whether I made the right decision or not.

Photo one: In the beginning, there was English class, and essays on random subjects such as origami and the bonobos. Oh, and as you can see, virginity. I haven't read that essay since, and I can't remember why I decided to write about it.

Photo two: In the middle, there were majors, and all the critiques we had to write. We were being honed to become media people with a constructive-yet-critical eye on things, and I somehow did well until this, my critique of Michael Moore's oeuvre for documentary class. Apparently I did so well Sir Doy thought I "can write". Well, here I am.

I wasn't really supposed to take writing about the Student Council elections seriously.

It really was just about me covering Jaja's run for batch representative. She told me of her plans through YM, asking for my "blessing", and I promised to be her "campaign manager". So, yes, Shale Campaigns did not begin as objectively as many might think. I guess it just happened.

When I joined the Student Council in my second year, Sarah approached me and asked me to write a blog about the goings-on in the batch assembly. Something like what I did the past elections, she said. I obliged, and the result was Faster Than Fast, a supposedly irreverent take on how the events and activities we organize are actually organized.

Yes, I only wrote three blog entries there. In case you clicked. The idea worked, but there was one problem: I wasn't exactly working under Sarah and Jaja, but rather, until Y2K and Nadia, as part of the Legislative Assembly. My foolish attempt at humanizing Sarah by writing about her love of turon from the faculty lounge went nowhere. But I figured it's a good thing, too. I enjoyed my time with the LA Core: it saw me do a university-wide survey, and become a committee head during the college's 25th anniversary celebrations. And, when elections came around again, I had more time to focus on the campaigns. With Jaja declining to run, I found myself talking to everybody - and the blog that Redg once credited with "changing the face of DLSU politics" became what it is.

I still find amazing the idea that people from both parties have been using Shale Campaigns as a barometer of sorts. I'll check my stats and see people finding my entries through both parties' official mailing groups. (What they're saying about it, I'll never know.) During the campaigns, these people will come to me and answer my questions as exhaustively as possible. And, when I decided to do one more year of coverage despite not being a student anymore, I had sources that weren't willing to bluff me. Never mind that they only know me as "Mr. Shale", in the words of former SC President Noey Arcinue.

I may not have made it to The Lasallian (and I didn't try again when Karla encouraged me to enter on the strength of my blog) but I'd like to think I made a contribution to the school's ecosystem. Now, if I can put that on my resume...

Photo one: I slightly regret not being able to cover the 2005 Freshmen Elections - but then again, I was pretty timid at the time! Except, perhaps, for the one time when the Santugon candidates did an RTR session in our class. I asked one of the four, "how will you inform us students of your programs?" She answered, "good question!" She'd later invite me to her 18th birthday. Years later, were good friends, to the point that I can take these crazy photos of her.

Photo two: I collected four years' worth of campaign materials from both parties. The last batch - the one for the 2009 elections - came from my sister, who helped as much as possible despite not wanting to write for me. The people I met during the campaigns asked me if she'll write. She'd admit she's more of a Tapat person.

Photo three: I took blogging about the elections too seriously that I began to write article outlines on scraps of paper. I'd have these notes picking apart both parties' platforms. And then there's this particular set of notes, revolving around Mia's open letter back in the 2008 elections. I got an ambush interview and I got tips to many other letters. I'd still like to think my coverage changed things sometimes, and this could be one of those examples.

For tagging purposes, a shoutout to everybody I met during the campaigns, personally or otherwise, and had later encounters with, in alphabetical order: Adette, Agnes, Anil, Chichi, Chris, Gerard, Jabi, Janelle, Jenn, Krizzie, Mico, Noey, Reena... bah, I'm sure I forgot some people.

Like everybody else, I aimed to finish college on time. Three years, nine terms, and then I can be productive. Also, the idea of graduating on time sounds good. And it still does.

But there were two instances when I thought I'll be delayed. The first was during my second year, when I failed to enroll in Philippine literature class because I ran out of slots. Catch was, it was a prerequisite for making it to majors. Oh, and there was one term left to majors, so if I fail to enroll in that class, I'll have to wait a whole year. I ended up cross-enrolling, meeting a couple of friends along the way, and realizing that literature classes for business students are much easier. Not that I wanted it - it sure felt weird for me and Eena to be the "top" students of the class, simply because we're CLA students.

The second time was when we were doing our thesis. Jason, Cuyeg and I had a hard time having our proposal approved. Our short film was supposed to be an allegory of sorts, with a man in solitary confinement, representing every hardship he's gone through. We couldn't squeeze it into half an hour, so the concept evolved - more of moved away - into one about a son refusing to forgive his father. We thought we'll fail the class (now that would've sucked, having a 0.0 on record) but we ended up being approved on the third reading, cramming our proposal in twelve days, and finally getting the go-signal to produce.

Sometimes I feel I haven't done much during our thesis. We stayed up late, but there was one time when Jason and Cuyeg were shooting while I slept. I didn't know how to drive. My script needed a handful of revisions, to the point that it sometimes felt like we were working Jason's script rather than mine. (I made a dating relationship work by asking Cuyeg about how boyfriends joke to girlfriends.) But I handled all the money, and I think I still have all the receipts from the combined week we spent shooting. It was the closest I got to Roan's suggestion that I act as the production manager.

Looking at how Kat works things now, I realize I never really performed well in certain things. For those three years, I just had my ass saved.

Photo one: In hindsight, I can't imagine a radio drama about two sisters arguing over coins airing on the radio. But I gained an appreciation into radio dramas through radio production class, especially after Basyang, when I resorted to listening to DZRH's primetime dramas. (Yes, I was listening to Gabi ng Lagim.) The only thing I'll reveal about the script is this: I named the characters after Kizia (she was Ginny) and Sarah (she was, well, Sarah).

Photo two: I'm particularly proud, however, of my screenplays. I still have hard copies of everything, from the one Clarence and I co-wrote for feature film class (it was called Taya) to the ones I wrote for film writing class. I can't toss them because all my soft copies are gone. There's this one screenplay I particularly liked: it was called Our Lady of the Abandoned and it was about two high school friends who took years to address their feelings for each other. Sir Doy found the dialogue "interesting". I liked the way I named a character after Fran.

Photo three: I'm just glad I had a chance to watch Citizen Kane. Also, you can't toss your film notes if they're kept in a nice envelope. I had fourteen or so of them.

Photo four: Almost three years after beginning work on our thesis, I only realized now what Sir Mariano meant when he marked one of our proposal drafts and revised "thesis statement" to "log line". He's right. We didn't change that at all - I should know, since I typed this one out. I don't think it was that big a deal, though, because I didn't see that correction in the eleven other drafts we made, as well as in our final report. Looking back, however, I found it funny that we had to rationalize our audience before doing a supposedly (in Miss Sibayan's words) "cathartic" film.

I liked Mang Ric a lot, partly because he handled the radio lab - and there was a time when I seriously relied on the radio lab for things - and partly because the radio lab has decent air conditioning. I think everybody wanted to be there. I hung out whenever someone is shooting something at the TV studio, even when it's the lower batches (Zet and Laine will remember me hanging around) doing something.

The equipment room wasn't that cool, but I liked Mang Ed anyway, because he's really approachable. Of course, he had to be really approachable, since we always went there for tripods and SLRs and lights and, eventually, the photography studio. In my last days in college, I'd hang out there, waiting for my only (afternoon!) class to begin.

The same, of course, couldn't be said of Mang Norms. We love him but he's annoying. Then again, I didn't spend that much time at the editing room (for work, at least, since I took electives in journalism and radio) to see him wrangle with cords for mini-DV players and closing time. Oh, yes, closing time. Clinic trips. And his apparent liking for Char, which we all pounced on.

Mang Let? Since he's in a different room than the actual desktop lab, not much can be said.

Things were easy back then, weren't they? Stuff seemed very stressful, what with a camera always on one hand, and concept papers in another, but there's always a chance to plop down a sofa and relax. Or maybe sleep. Or maybe it was the company. In my case, oh, definitely.

Photo one: Despite my penchant for candid photographs, I wasn't so happy with photography class. I wasn't that fired up, and I somehow found it tedious. Still, I took some pretty good photographs (it's the power of depth of field) and I learned stuff that I'd use in my candids terms after. And then there are the candids I took for the class itself, including this not-so-classic photo of Lau looking for subjects from the Yuchengco building. There are two copies of this: the one on the photo is clean, while the other is smudged and resides in my portfolio. The companion piece - a photo of Cuyeg with his arms larger than usual - I can't remember where.

Photo two: This has nothing to do with majors. It just happened that I lost the phone I won during majors, which meant I had to go back and ask everyone for their numbers. This is a different notebook: it's the one where all my aperture settings are listed down. But the connection is with Tina's listing here - she's listed as "Junior" precisely because of...

Photo three: The fascinating thing about broadcasting class was the history: all the stuff that happened before the war, and immediately after. You remember the lessons about Priscilla, the Kolynos Girl? And then there was that project when we had to do a radio drama of sorts: Sir Doy (who added "or very high frequency" to my test, you noticed?) gave us a script off Kuwentong Kutsero and I ended up playing Lolo Hugo because I can do the voice. Sars was the mother, and her son was Tina - she played it because, I argued, female voice talents voice male cartoon characters. The "lolo"/"apo" thing never stopped.

In a way, I was excited about these overnight activites, ever since I was in high school. Problem is, spending extended time with friends (and other people) always triggered a realization of sorts in me. Either I develop an unwanted crush - that happened in, I think, at least five instances - or I feel really terrible about all these things being discussed.

So, when I went to college, I cringed a little when I saw that we have a recollection and a retreat. I didn't want those realizations. I still got them.

It's always a cycle. Something big happens and I can't deal with it, and when I address it, things go so badly that I feel I screwed things up. The only time the cycle broke was during our college retreat, which still didn't go as well as planned, but benefited from my self-control: nothing big happened. The only thing I remember right now is that conversation I had with Loui at the chapel: me trying to keep my voice low, talking about... some profound things, which I've forgotten already.

Yet I also like those things at the end, when (and this always happens) people tell people good things about them. During one high school retreat, we all had to write stuff on pink papers stuck on the backs of people. I still have mine, kept in a bag along with my foreign newspapers, but what's written there mostly isn't serious. My love notes from Saliksik have gone missing with the bag, which some guy decided to steal. My poster from the retreat is still with me, and I remember Kizia's note in it, written in pink ink on pink paper. I liked it, partly because at the time I haven't really had closure over that so-called silent revolution.

I've always wanted people to tell me good things about myself. Can't blame me. I always hear all that's wrong with me.

Photo one: My second major college flare-up was when I told the whole Saliksik gang that I've been faking it the whole time. (The first involved Ale.) Pretty much the whole block misunderstood what I meant, so for a couple of days I felt like I screwed it up. The only person who thought otherwise the first time was Kevin, who wrote this little note on my Saliksik handbook. The others (Jason notably) coached me on how to apologize. The following day, I hesitated going to the classroom. I was, of course, terribly wrong.

Photo two: The retreat was supposedly a block affair but I didn't feel part of it, partly because they didn't get me a room (I had to adjust sections) and partly because nobody seemed to want to spend a lot of time with me. Still, for some reason, they all went and wrote these little vignettes down, expressing their supposed appreciation. Or maybe they just found my baby photos cute.

Icka went to DLSU early this week, apparently to get a recommendation letter from our English teacher, Miss Bernie. (Apparently, she's entering graduate school, but missed DLSU's deadline, so she'll try at the UP.) The first thing she was asked: was she still in touch with me?

"She didn't recognize me!" she told me. "She thought I was some Chinese student. She was staring at me and was like, 'Ericka! You look so different! You're so white. You look so... yummy.'"

I figured Miss Bernie remembered me for being the attendance guy. While waiting for the air conditioning to be turned on, I held this blue notebook with slightly tattered pages, writing down the names of people who went into the room. It was hard at the beginning, since I didn't know anyone (I distinctly remember writing "Jacqueline" on one of the lists) but as the weeks passed by I didn't find the need to ask blockmates what their names are.

The catch was, there was one person in that class who was outside the block: an upperclassman, Jelyn. I think she was a junior at the time, taking up psychology. I learned her name eventually, but initially she was just the other person in the room.

At that time, there always was something fascinating with upperclassmen. They looked so accomplished whenever they swung by the frosh block to tell us about our options, or our obligations, or some event downstairs. And when we actually get along (especially when we're in the same class) it felt like we were actually getting the hang of college. Or maybe it's just me getting giddy about it? I remember having that thought when I took world literature class with Eena and Lei. I also remember that thought when I took ethics class with Jae and Jayne. (Those examples are more recent, though.)

But right now I remember Airra, this upperclassman - I think she's a year up, or maybe two, I can't recall - who I was seatmates with during speech class. We got along quite well, but I lost contact with her, and searching for her on Facebook is fruitless - mostly because I'm not so sure how she looks now.

I also remember this woman who had strong features and was a classmate of mine in this one class. Not sure if it was speech class. Maybe I met her in high school, but no, I'm not confusing her with Ana. I swear I bumped into her in college. I thought I saw her at lunch today and I remembered that I had this little thing for her until she seemed intimidating.

Photo one: I tried to survive my first term in college with one spiral notebook. I don't know what I thought it could, but obviously it didn't work, since I eventually bought a refillable journal. Still, the notebook proved useful, especially during that first day in class, where I wrote down my notes on existentialism - before critical thinking class proved to be a bore. (The Santugon sticker was added on two terms later. Blame it on Les.)

Photo two: When I bought the journal, the notebook became a repository of idle thoughts, fantasy radio schedules and attendance for English 1 class. I don't know why I was entrusted with sorting the thing down - maybe it's because I always arrived on time, or I just looked responsible. I had this slightly fancy system: "late" stood for people who arrived after the bell but before Miss Bernie came in, and "late 30" stood for people who arrived before the grace period ended.

Photo three: The bonobos were technically a lesson in anthropology (and eventually the origins of the BonoSoc) but Sudoy and I felt like using that for our English 1 class. I guess we found the idea of female bonobos rubbing each others' genitals alluring. Us using one class' lessons (and projects) in another class wasn't unusual: I used my philosophy paper for speech class.

Photo four: Who would've imagined that Sir Ronda tried to teach us jive with handouts? They didn't work, because we were taught the jive through hard work and, perhaps, fear. I know that a lot: I almost flunked the class when I turned up in the finale exam wearing a short-sleeved polo. I ended up in the bathroom for the whole class, only to be called back because I had to organize the final "party", with actual food we discussed during one of Sister Pinky's dances. PE came in handy four years later, when I covered So You Think You Can Dance for work.

I can't really think of anything to write today, so this should do.

One of the things I hated about going to school during the first term was the really early start. My Mondays and Fridays started at seven in the morning, and having a Cavite home means waking up at half past four so I can leave at half past five. I'd arrive in the classroom with the AC still turned off, and the class would wait for the maintenance folk to turn it on from outside.

Those first two terms were fun, for the most part. Apart from the emotional upheavals (which I hopefully have covered in future installments) there was a sense of wonder in watching my professors make sense of things the way my high school professors didn't. Serious discussions about art! Fascinating discussions about global affairs! And then, when they suddenly decide to let us have a free day or something, oh, it's as if we needed the break. It was pretty confusing at first, at least in hindsight.

Photo one: One of my critical papers for Miss Sangil's art appreciation class, tackling the confusion that is Amadeus. In hindsight, I think I wrote a bad paper. Apparently she didn't see it that way.

Photo two: One of my film analysis papers for Sister Pinky's religion class. I had a thing for the Frutiger font face during our first term, but thanks to strict format guidelines, I resorted to using Georgia, which looks good too. I guess these paper was a precursor to majors, huh?

Photo three: A couple of test booklets for Sir Marasigan's international studies class. I don't know why I have Tracy's booklet - this came with an answer sheet and a course card, so I presume I took this during course card day, because she wasn't around. As far as I'm aware this didn't go to the trash.

My mother always said that when our house catches fire, I'll die first. One, I'll suffocate from the smoke easily, being an asthmatic. Two, all the paper I have collected will burn up, killing me.

Indeed, I have a lot of paper in the house - and I'm not just referring to my magazines, books, and foreign newspapers. Our bedroom has this shelf, and one of them is chock full of my stuff - things I refused to let go of for some particular reason. Seven years of paper all stashed in one shelf, randomly organized.

One night, I decided to clean them all. I wanted more space for my CDs, and everything else. I don't really like to clean things up, so this was a surprise even to myself.

Yes, there were a lot of things. There are things I knew I kept, and am not willing to let go. There are things I felt has served its purpose. There are things I don't even remember keeping. Seven years of them, going from that shelf to the bedroom floor to, eventually, either an envelope or a plastic bag that's headed straight to the trash can. I think I let go of two-thirds of the stuff.

And then I realized I have a camera. So I took photos of the things I chanced upon, the things I thought deserved one last hurrah before the trash can, or a celebration before storage. The end result: thirty-two photos of stuff written on pieces of paper. Or printed. Or developed. It's a history of sorts, of the seven years - well, more of the last four years - that preceded the last two years of my life. You can click on the links below to see them clearly. Or, you can squint and try to figure out what's there. I'll be posting these over the next few days, provided I can squeeze them in during my idle work hour.

Obviously this means a slightly different take on the blog. Hey, I felt like shaking things up for now, especially with a block reunion coming...

Photo one: Friday night in my bedroom, with papers and whatnot from seven years of high school and college sorted out on the floor. And the electric fan, and the radio, and my sister's stuff.

Photo two: My DLSU acceptance letter, which I decided to keep. I'll admit, my college life was quite fun, so I decided to keep the one thing that made three years of my life - and, admittedly, the rest of it - what it is right now.

Photo three: The rest of my DLSU enrollment pack, including a step-by-step guide to enrollment. This went to the trash.

At the risk of sounding painfully innocent, isn't it fun to think that technology has enabled us to be friends, more or less, with people on the other side of the world?

Well, yes, there was that thing called snail mail. You could be sending letters to someone in Paris! (Isn't that romantic?) You'd just do a little digging, give a little effort, and you could be sending correspondence with someone who definitely knows a lot more about the French Revolution than you do. And then there's personally knowing someone who's on the other side of the world. Here's an obligatory shoutout to Anna, my elementary classmate who flew to Rancho Cucamonga and went off my radar for almost a decade.

But that's beside the point. Isn't it fun to think that technology has enabled us to be friends, more or less, with people on the other side of the world? Those darned social networking sites have made it easy. Gone are the days when you'll struggle to find an address to send letters too. It's just a couple of clicks and, when you're deemed interesting enough - that is the new currency, admit it - then you can be exchanging several lines per second about how different life is in opposite ends of the planet.

I never imagined I'll be chatting with people studying in Las Vegas (hello, Raisa) or stationed in a Navy base in Japan (hello, Rae). Well, I never expected those conversations to last, either. That is the problem with distance. That, and being deemed uninteresting. more or less.

But they're not exactly different from me. They're fellow Filipinos - there are variations, I'll dare say, which should explain why they're where they are - and while the perspectives are interesting, it doesn't really have that much of a kick. You know, the idea that they walked the same grounds you walked once subtracts from the things you've yet to discover. I mean, you watch the local news and remember someone mention that it happened right in front of their house! And then there's that foolish invitation for coffee...

Anyway, those childhood dreams of conversing with foreigners just for the hell of - we all found the idea cool, admit it - it were eventually realized.

Jeany found me on Last.fm. Why exactly, I don't know. I accepted her invite, she sent me a message, and I sent her a message. It proved cumbersome, so we exchanged email addresses, and when that proved cumbersome we started chatting. She's a New Yorker just my age, living in a flat literally overlooking Times Square, working as part of a local radio station's promotion team.

Oh, yes, you saw that coming, right? When that came out the conversations really began. She'd tell me about how crappy New York radio is, and how much better the Los Angeles ones are. And then she'll realize that I, some guy in Manila, knows more about American radio than she, someone who's actually worked in a radio station (well, three) does. "You're such a geek," she'd tell me, and I'll just agree with her, because I'm also surprised.

Or, we'd talk about how much things cost in New York, and how much the difference is with stuff bought in Manila. Thankfully, I still know enough basic artihmetic to do those conversions. Unfortunately, I can't say we have classy neighborhood stores - she'll describe a patch of Times Square and I'll think of Singapore more than Manila. And then she'd tell me to take a flight to New York, and I'll tell her that tickets are expensive, and that getting a US visa is tedious. I don't think she ever got that. Then again, she's a product of the world: she's of Korean descent, and she's flown everywhere. She promises she'll go here one day, but I guess it depends on whether her new job at Apple is treating her well.

And then there's Kira, who I met on Twitter. She's one of the many American David Cook fans who Valerie (inevitably) knew. I don't remember exactly how she crossed paths - she must've replied to my tweet or something - and the next thing I knew, we were already talking about other things.

She's also just my age - well, a little older, but judging from the many things she's up to, it feels like I'm talking to someone that's three years older. She does some designing. She writes her own songs. If you're in Dallas and you're out and about, you've probably seen her perform. Or, if you're Ryan Seacrest and you're out and about, you've probably seen her audition. I'll read her tweets about these artists or musical theater, and I'll cringe a little.

But I'm comfortable enough to tweet ridiculous stuff, like "I'll pee in my pants when I finally see Kira in person." That'd lead to a conversation about adult diapers, which'd lead to her taking a photo of a pack that she saw in her nearby supermarket. Or, we'd discuss vampires and I'll insist that, unlike Edward Cullen, I don't sparkle. More often than not, I'll be tweeting her at four in the afternoon - our afternoon - asking her to get to sleep, because it's two in the morning. Turns out she is the vampire.

The whole real-time thing has made things interesting. Of course, it helps that both Jeany and Kira stay up really late, which overlaps nicely with my idle time at work. Only once did I stay up late - a Skype video call with Jeany, which ended at roughly four in the morning. Or maybe five. Still, the idea of people making sense of each other from one side of the world to the other is pretty cool. If I'm seven years old I'd probably be really giddy. "I'm talking to Americans!" I'd yell.

But that's not really the point now. Besides, the two girls have something in common: they'd rather be in London.

My first conversations with Jeany involved British radio personalities: we have a shared love of Adam and Joe, we both fought (relatively) to save 6 Music, and both think stations there are much better than American ones. (In fact, before we even met, I already heard her somewhere: she was calling a British radio station, talking about that Times Square flat.) The difference, again, is that I know more than she does - and she's had work experience for a couple of radio stations there! She'd obsess about working for the BBC and I'll just agree with her.

And Kira? When she found out I'm also an Anglophile - really, it's just the radio stations and everything else I find out - she got pretty giddy. And then, when she got this bag with the Union Jack decorated in front - with studs - she proudly showed it off to me. I bet, if she had the means, she'll take her first foreign trip to London. By then, they'll both make me, a person who just loved the idea of talking to people from across the world for the hell of it, really jealous.