There's this strong belief among my mother's side of the extended family that I'm particularly lucky when it comes to raffles and draws.

I don't really know how they came to that conclusion. I just remember joining this raffle when I was a kid. Well, to be specific, I did not volunteer to join that raffle. My aunt, who used to work for a fast food restaurant. once went home with booklet after booklet of raffle stubs. The three nephews who could write - that'd be me, my sister and my cousin - were assigned a booklet and asked to sign all of them with our names. A hundred raffle tickets. I did not enjoy it.

But it somehow paid off. One of the tickets we signed won. One of the tickets I signed won. I didn't win the grand prize - I think it was a car, but I can't remember anymore, as I was around eight years old - but I won one of the consolation prizes: a gas stove. I didn't even get to bring my prize home: it went to my grandmother, with whom my aunt was living. Not that I begrudge that move - to be fair, their kitchen needed an upgrade of sorts. And what would I do with a gas stove? I love cooking shows, but I'm years away from learning how to cook.

Still, they came to the conclusion that I'm particularly lucky when it comes to raffles and draws. And I still don't know how they came to that conclusion. I've been signing all these raffle tickets for years; if there was indeed something in me I should already be the owner of a brand new car, or at least a brand new car circa 2004. Perhaps the only other time I won something was when I won a mobile phone in some contest in college that I joined out of a fluke. You all know what happened next.

And that belief still persists. Sure, I've gone a long way from being that eight year old (or was I nine?) who won a gas stove I never got to use. I've since learned the statistical concept of probability. Or, I've since resigned myself to the fact that I'll never win anything again. And yes, the raffle tickets don't come as often (or, well, as occasionally) as they used to, but they're trying my luck in some other thing: the lottery.

It's funny watching my friends go gaga the past few weeks. Yes, you probably know that the jackpot for PCSO's Grand Lotto has breached the P700 million mark. (As I write this, reports estimate tonight's jackpot to be around P725 million.) And that means everybody is scrambling for a piece of the pie, if not the whole thing. People betting by the boatloads. Politicians aiming to put a jackpot ceiling of sorts, because they know they can't possibly win. Journalists suddenly pouncing on many aspects of the lottery's operations. Priests begging people not to pray for the jackpot, because the Lord is more discerning than Bruce Nolan. At least the PCSO's intentions for launching the Grand Lotto - to have the more affluent people betting - has come true. After all, the rich also want a slice of what Ranice called "the best Christmas ever".

We're a pretty affluent family, or so I'd like to think. Still, it hasn't stopped my dad from trying his luck in the lottery. Nothing wrong with dreaming, yes. But if you want your dream to come true, you have to pull some strings - and that's where I come in. I'm lucky when it comes to these things, so I'm now the one tasked with falling in line at lotto outlets and putting in his bets. (To be fair, they've also asked me to put in bets of my own. I just haven't.)

Today, with my dad fresh from London and suffering from a painful foot, he asked me to put in his bets for this week's draws. He's been betting the same numbers all this time, save for two lucky picks which look more random than lucky. (36, 37, 38. Yes, I know the numbers that actually get drawn these weeks tend to go together, but this is just too much.) Now I'm asked to take the car and drive it to the nearest mall - not the posh ones, since there's this playful belief that people who bet in those posh malls don't win, because they're in a posh mall - and fall in line. My driving's slowly getting better, and it helped that the parking slot I found was pretty wide. My patience, however, hasn't improved.

The line was, unsurprisingly, pretty long. The lotto outlet was just outside the mall's entrance. The line went from there to the sidewalk - a good quarter of a kilometer, more or less. I ended up waiting an hour, and without a pair of earphones to tide me over, I was bound to get really bored. I ended up talking to the guy ahead of me, though. He's in his late 40s, and he looks a little unkempt - just the type of person you'd expect to have a really good conversation with. Sure, it helps that I know my way around this lotto issue, if we should call it that.

The guy is much luckier. He's gone pretty close to winning the jackpot - sure, not the current jackpot, but getting five out of six numbers right is no mean feat. You win P25,000! You get to claim your prize at the PCSO main office! You get the extra frustration you get when you realize that you're one number away from the big prize! And they think I'm lucky with these things. We only get three numbers, the thing they apparently call balik-taya - you know, a refund.

Unfortunately - and this is despite not having a pair of earphones to distract me - I forgot what we talked about. I do remember this little boy who approached the line and started asking everyone for loose change. The guy had sixty bucks in hand, the very money he's paying for tonight's draw. "Kapag tumama ako, bibigyan kita," he told the kid, with a smile you wouldn't see but definitely hear. That smile's the least he could do - he lives somewhere in Manila, and just happened to be in Cavite because it's a holiday today.

We just wanted someone to win the jackpot. The news reports are getting ridiculous already. Lotto outlets are running out of those sheets of paper where you mark your numbers. The long line today was partly because each bettor had to dictate his numbers orally, and it got a little messier when the security guard announced that newly-printed stubs have come in. People just had to get those stubs.

The news tonight went one step further: lotto outlets are running out of thermal paper to print lotto tickets on! Combine that with the politicians and the clergy and the thought that when you do win the jackpot, your family tree will suddenly rival one of the redwoods in California - imagine your dead relatives coming back from the grave to ask for a cut in your winnings - and you can say that this lottery thing is slowly becoming a pain in the ass. And still, it makes tonight the best time to really hope that my purported luck in raffles and draws kicks in. Not that I need P725 million - I just need enough to go to London, rough it out at Rough Trade and survive the whole thing. Please?

Two hours after this blog entry went live, the PCSO confirmed that someone won the Grand Lotto, which ultimately amounted to P741.2 million. Emphasis on the word "one". Everybody promptly vowed to hunt down Miko Morelos, the Inquirer reporter who wrote his name on the tweet that confirmed the existence of a winner - he has to - presuming he was the one who won. (I wonder what the mood at the Inquirer newsroom is.) Yes, things are still crazy even if someone already won. On second thought, this confirms my luck - I wrote this blog and hours later someone won...

One day, a man and a woman left a supermarket in a bit of a panic. She came from the comfort room - maybe I got it wrong, but this is how I understood the story - where she pulled out a pregnancy test and saw two lines. Positive. She is pregnant.

It's the second time she's taken a pregnancy test, and the second time she's seen two lines. Still, she wasn't unsure. "Punta tayo ng ospital," she told the man, who happened to be her boyfriend. "Pa-check natin kung totoo nga."

They walked out of the entrance to have a smoke. She didn't believe she was pregnant, or at least she didn't want to believe yet. She was getting a little jittery. While walking out she thought she heard someone calling her name, but she had other things to think about.

Outside smoking, the man heard the very thing the woman heard. "May tumatawag yata sa'yo," he went, pointing towards the entrance. The woman turned to the door and finally saw the person calling her out.

"Ale, Ale, Ale," she went.

"Jill!" the woman said.

The voices she heard turns out to be one of her closest friends, who worked for a real estate firm: she was assigned at a booth in the very supermarket she came from. After the usual greetings, she felt she had to tell her some pretty urgent news.

"May sasabihin ako sa'yo," the woman said. "Pero mamaya na. May pupuntahan lang kami." And just as quick, she left with her boyfriend, to head to the hospital, to take that one test she needed.

Somewhere along the way, the friend send a text message to the woman. "Buntis ka?"

A few weeks later, another man and woman went up the escalator in one of the more upscale malls. They were going to watch a movie. Eclipse, in fact. On the way up, the other woman felt she had to tell her friend - it's a friendly movie date, after all - some news.

"Niko, may secret akong sasabihin sa'yo," she said.

"Buntis ka, Kat?" the other man said, jokingly.

"Hindeeeee," she said. "Hindi. Si Ale ang buntis."

"Buntis si Ale?" He realizes this isn't a joke. "How long na?"

"Mga seven weeks siguro."

"Sa boyfriend niya?"

"Oo. Hindi ka ba nagulat?"

"Bakit naman ako magugulat?" By this time the two have arrived at the ticket counter, trying to find the line for Eclipse. "Ewan ko. Parang, it's the sort of thing I expected to happen to her. Kasi nga, di ba, she's out and about and all."

"Hindi ko lang kasi ma-imagine na magse-settle down siya," the other woman said.

"Point," the other man conceded.

"Huwag mo munang ipagsasabi sa iba, ha?" she requested. "Hindi pa yata alam ng parents niya, eh."

A few months later, the other man was having lunch with yet another woman, a college friend of his. (Don't worry. This forced literary style will end a few paragraphs from now. Anyway.) They haven't met since graduation, and they had two years' worth of news to catch up on. By this time, a lot has happened: the woman's parents already found out about her pregnancy, and the other man "officially" knew about it. He figured he'll mention it to his friend.

"Have you heard Ale is pregnant, Icka?" he went.

"Really?" she said. There was a short pause. "Wouldn't it be awkward, though? You had a crush on her."

"It's surreal, yes," he said. "But not awkward."

He didn't know it would get more surreal. A couple of months after, while busy at work, he got a message on his phone. "Galle ako," it said. It was the pregnant woman. "You here?"

"Up to what time ka diyan?" he replied. "I can go, kahit mahabang lakad."

"Up to past one, I guess. Susundo ako sa St. Paul eh."

"Punta na ako."

"All right. See you!"

I told you that literary style will end soon. Sorry for the confusion. There really wasn't a point in doing that, not even metaphorically. Sure, when I sat down in front of Ale at Teriyaki Boy, it felt a little surreal, but only because I wasn't really in her circle, judging from the fact that I learned of her pregnancy from Kat, and had to pretend that I only figured it out through her tweets.

Then again, we've talked about it a few times already. She was looking for a new gynecologist, when she was frustrated with her old one, who did not respond to her inquiries about her headaches. At one point she was at Medical City, which was relatively near to my office, and I quipped about being able to see her baby bump. That should explain our meet-up.

Yes, Kat was right: it was a little weird imagining Ale settling down. Or maybe it's because I wasn't used to talking to people about settling down. Yes, she said, a wedding is in the future, but it isn't much of a priority at the moment, since she still has to give birth. She's due in February at the latest - funnily, she's expected to deliver the baby on Valentine's Day - and they're now thinking about where to get their hospital funds. No scrimping, though.

"Di ba nga, we were made in God's likeness and image?" she explained. She was attending this seminar - and no, we haven't gone religious on you. Anyway. "Saka di ba nga, God is almighty? So ibig sabihin nun, we're also almighty." Her point was, she doesn't need to worry about things too much, because it will come. I'll admit, her reasoning makes sense - but for a cynic like me, her positivity was disconcerting. That, or I really can't get used to seeing her settling down.

But she is. Before the we-are-almighty-too discussion - that was when we both left the mall - we were talking about baby names. She doesn't like the name her boyfriend, Bryan, has. "Masyadong girly ang Lorraine," she said. I'd agree, but her pick for a name - Alexandra - is much, much girlier.

I haven't met her boyfriend, of course, but he struck me as this really mature guy, perhaps someone Ale really deserves. She'd tell me about the many discussions they had after the pregnancy was revealed: how both grandparents reacted, how the parents coped with it, how the mother dealt with it. I was, oddly, fascinated. Sure, there's the fact that I never expected to be learning about this. But there's also the impression that Ale isn't the least bit worried. Maybe it's the new philosophy. It just struck me that she knows what to do after.

I was getting the idea that this will last. I told her that it will last, that - and there's this series of cosmic circumstances that explains why she got pregnant now - Bryan is meant for her, and that she'll be happy. Maybe I didn't say that, but the point is, the positivity was rubbing off. Or I found myself excited for the baby as much as anybody else.

She doesn't look as pregnant as you'd expect someone seven months into the pregnancy to be. Maybe that's why I forgot to - and yes, I kinda planned this - whisper a hello to her daughter, which she nicknamed "Jellybean" for now.

"Naku, ayaw ni Bry ng pa-cute na pangalan," she said. "Kaya lang naa-attach na ako sa 'Jellybean'."

"Gamitin mo pa rin!" I said. "Nickname sa bahay."

I somehow hoped she'd take my advice. Then I snapped out of it. That, I figured, is the most surreal it could get.

I know my lunch habits are different. The rest of the world take off at midday, and I take off an hour after, just so I can avoid the lunch rush - that time when the rest of the world descends on every available food-related establishment and eat. I've been doing that for the good part of two years, and my body has adjusted accordingly: I rarely get hungry earlier than one in the afternoon.

The thing is, I can accommodate. I've had early lunches with certain people, from agreeable friends to just-getting-by colleagues. Of course, they have to tell me that these things will happen. My usual excuse: I can take off any time because nobody's really watching.

Today, however, nobody really told me anything. I just knew Carlo was out and about, at the newly-opened branch of Kebab Bob at Strata 2000. I had an inkling that Michelle, who worked at Ortigas, would drop by. Sure, I presumed that she wouldn't drop by today because her job meant she's probably busy even during her lunch break.

Something different happened, though. Michelle had a lunch break, and was waiting at the restaurant for me. Well, it was more of Carlo asking her to wait for me. She couldn't wait any longer - she had a meeting at one in the afternoon. I left the office fifteen minutes earlier. Carlo told me she left five minutes before.

Nobody told me any of this was happening.

Okay. The only thing I knew was this: Carlo was out and about, at the newly-opened branch of Kebab Bob. That happens to be his business venture, a partnership with his blockmate Edong. It's their second branch, I think - I'm not really sure if their first branch, at some obscure mall in Caloocan, was still going strong or has already closed down. He tweeted that he'll be walking the streets of Ortigas, encouraging people to check his little place out. I figured I would go since, well, I am in Ortigas, and a fifteen minute walk to Strata 2000 isn't a bad thing for someone who needs exercise.

The first person I saw, however, was Edong, just outside the store, smoking a cigarette.

What happened was, of course, some catching up. I haven't seen them for the best part of two years. (I spotted Carlo during that school excursion.) There were the usual questions about what we're all doing since graduation. I didn't really have to ask, since I was already living their answer.

Kebab Bob, Edong explained to me, took off from their other business venture, a Persian resto-bar called Keema Keema. I've heard of that - it's everywhere on Facebook - but it was at the Pioneer area, that place in between my workplace and Makati that still seems so hard to get to. Sure, it was a relative hit, but somewhere along the way he and Carlo decided that they should go the fast food route. I figured it'd appeal more to the workforce who are out on a lunch break, predictably at midday.

The food's been tweaked for the workforce, obviously. I tried their specialty - well, that's what one of their employees said. (Yes, their employees. Kinda surreal, huh?) It's pretty much a beef kebab, with a whole grilled tomato, some buttered rice, and the usual sauce, which is sweeter that I would've wanted. But the beef was well-seasoned, and since I was looking to spend as less money as possible this week, it was pretty much worth it.

Imagine me telling that to Edong. There I was, a friend of his, suddenly shifting to food critic mode, trying as much as possible to be objective - I mean, I cannot kiss ass to save my life. It all went down fine.

The other surreal feeling occurred minutes before I left. I suddenly knew someone in the food industry. You get the idea - I'd drop by my friend's restaurant and have a chat with the owners. Maybe hope for a freebie, although I wouldn't really dare ask for one. I didn't want one either, although I did get Carlo to serve me some iced tea, in a cup made of corn and yam, placed on a tray with all the straws. It's a usually Carlo thing to do. He'll (unintentionally) sound a little patronizing but you know he's pretty sincere. As he said, it's like Student Council elections.

I told them I'll return. One, it's cheap. Two, I sometimes need to walk a long distance, just for the exercise. Three, the food's pretty good. And four, I know the owners, so I can tell them when something's a little bit off. The tables were too high, I told them. The chairs are just too low, he countered. I think they won't think I'm being snobbish and all. I'll (unintentionally) sound snarky but they should know I'm pretty sincere. It's just like Shale Campaigns, really.

We'd end up talking about our jobs again. You all know where this went.

Kebab Bob is at the ground floor of the Strata 2000. It's not at the F. Ortigas Jr. side; it's at the Garnet side, opposite Yellow Cab and Army/Navy, although I didn't really see those two when I went there. I'm just trusting Carlo's description.

"Natatawa ako," Hazel pointed out early this week. "We discuss these things quite too casually."

Too casually, indeed. Then again, she was talking to me, the person who tends to react to pretty much everything. In fact, I already have a thought bubble for this phenomenon: how come women always tweet about either when they're going to take a shower, or when it's "that time of the month"? Not that the menstrual cycle is something men should not bother about - when you're married, and trying to have kids, you have no choice but to keep track of your wife's sanitary napkin usage - but, well, it's not really the sort of thing you have Twitter conversations about.

But I also have a thought bubble for that. "I learned about these things in school first," I told her, "so I can take it."

I can remember that day. I was in fifth grade, and it was home economics class - that class after lunch break where we learned about washing our clothes and tending to basic illnesses and, somewhere in the middle of the school year, cross-stitching. Anyway, I remember that gloomy afternoon quite vividly, of the time when our teacher Miss Cynthia asked us to open our books to this particular page - page sixty-something - and proceeded to tell us about what the menstrual cycle is. And there was a part of me that was fascinated about it. I was totally clueless about it before that, and now I'm hearing about certain liquids coming out of certain places in a woman's body at certain times of the month. But what struck me the most was my little realization: sanitary napkins, I figured, aren't really adult diapers for ladies who aren't that old.

We were in fifth grade. This was the time when all of us were undergoing all these changes. I realized, during my conversation with Hazel, that it was something that deeply, if not disturbingly, fascinated us.

"More of a CR conversation, really," I said. "'Meron ka na ba?' for girls. 'Tuli ka na ba?' for guys, often followed by, 'patingin nga!'"

"You boys seriously do that?" she answered, surprised, surprisingly. "Nagpapakitaan kayo?"

"Only some. Then again, boys tend to lie about this. Kung hindi ka pa tuli, hindi ka pa binata."

I remember wishing that I was circumcised at birth. At least, I figured, I wouldn't have to go through the ordeal of seeing my penis with foreskin now, and without it an hour later. Or maybe weeks later, when it gets past the nangangamatis stage. My actual circumcision was an eventful day, only because it happened on the same day Miriam Quiambao became Miss Universe first runner-up.

And I remember that conversation - the "patingin nga!" bit - happening. It was in school, during recess, and it was me and a classmate, who happened to be in the toilets at the same time. That sort of thing was commonplace among the boys in our class. Circumcision was a hurdle, the time when boys started becoming men - and, of course, this was the time when we all wanted to become binata already, and we thought the creaking voices and growth spurts begin with that one single operation. I don't think I showed anything to anyone.

"Pero I remember back in grade school, wearing bra was an issue," Hazel shared. "Nagtitinginan din kami."

"Did your questions go, 'anong kulay ng bra mo?' or something?" I asked. "I do hope it didn't go past that."

"We showed them to each other. No need to ask the color. We just made comments like, 'mine's smaller', 'mine's bigger,' blah."

"Nagpapalakihan kayo? Walang ganyan samin. As far as I can recall."

Like we were aware about that when we were in fifth grade.

"Well... sort of. It sounds rude pala, no, for little girls."

Back then, of course, it didn't. Sure, I never heard my female classmates talk about wearing bras - either I can't remember, or I'm too busy with certain things, or they just wore sandos all throughout - but the idea of little kids showing a wide-eyed interest in puberty is, looking back, quite disconcerting. Or maybe I'm just being a 21-year-old, the sort who's seen ads for feminine wash packaged towards teens, and masculine wash packaged towards guys who want to be suave. It's been a decade since all that talk of circumcision, and we've long passed the oh-my-God-what-is-happening-to-my-body? stage. We're all grown up, relatively, and we don't really like it.

There is a part of me who still wants to be really comfortable. I know I'll have to do things by myself soon - and there are some things that I am doing by myself right now - but I'm not an American. I'm not some guy who moved to my own place the moment I graduated from high school. I'm not some guy who dealt with college debt and part-time jobs. I'm not stressing about paying the rent - at least not yet.

But my parents are growing old. Sure, my dad still has twenty years before he reaches the mandatory retirement age - unless you count his vow that he'll retire the moment my brother graduates from college - but the idea that we'll have to support ourselves, and our parents, sooner or later is looming large. It's certainly not as fascinating as the thought of growing armpit hair.

It's been almost three years since I learned how to drive, but only lately have I really been driving. Until a few weeks ago, the farthest I've gone was Festival Supermall, which is roughly twenty minutes away. (This was when my ear got blocked by all that ear wax, and I had to head to an ENT to have it cleared. My ear wax is wetter than usual, turns out.) Suddenly, I'm driving my dad's car from my office in Ortigas to our home in Cavite - on a particularly rainy Friday. Sure, that means I can say I've driven my car with NU 107 in the background, but it was still a stressful two hours, especially with heavy traffic along the SLEX, and the fact that I was driving at night, which I've never done before.

Since then, I've made two trips from my house to Ortigas, driving myself and my dad to work. I've taken my mom's car to a gas station along Daang Hari. I've picked up my brother from his friend's house fifteen minutes away - and went face-to-face with a truck who decided to beat the red light; it was, obviously, a really stressful experience, and one that's definitely miles away from bringing the car to the car wash, something which I've been good at, or so I think.

"Mabuti nang nagpa-practice ka para kapag wala kami ng mommy mo, ikaw na maghahatid sa kapatid mo sa school," my dad rationalized. I get him, but I still cringe whenever he gives me the keys to his car. I don't think I'm a particularly good driver, or at least not yet, since I tend to not look everywhere, or otherwise. And I still have my impulses. And I'm a chicken. A relative chicken, sure, but still a chicken. And I still struggle with parking in malls. I can't get it right at a relatively empty one at Festival, and that thought will bring me back to when I found myself in a car with Cait, headed to the grocery, and watching her park her car effortlessly. Of course, there was the time when we returned to her house and I tried to help her park in a particularly tight space, which I failed on. Miserably. I'm a guy and I don't park very well. Sure, I'll learn it soon, but you know how I deal with these things, right?

Yesterday I took my dad's car - more of, him offering me the car when I pointed out there won't be any shuttles late in the afternoon - and headed to the Alabang Town Center. I was going to meet Valerie, who found time from her busy-even-on-a-holiday schedule to meet me for coffee and, most importantly, the Blender issue with Katy Perry (and, well, David Cook) on it. I've been driving long distances for a while at this point, so this was no biggie. Somehow, I even looked forward to it. Parking was still a bitch, though, especially when the car beside the empty slot I first found was parked so badly I had no choice but to find another slot.

And yet, when I maneuvered the car, trying to park in that bad slot, I felt stupid. Reverse, drive, reverse, drive, and a lot of turns on the steering wheel, and my left side mirror is still so close to that stupid van. I can only imagine what the other drivers who found themselves watching me fail were thinking. "He's such a bad driver."

I eventually found a better slot, and I parked it better than the first time I tried parking in a mall. At least I was within the lines, and reasonably straight.

It does take experience, and lots of it. I was this nervous student driver who, on the very first day of lessons, cringed when my instructor told me to take the driver's seat and drive on an empty road, stuck in first gear. It didn't help, of course, that he insisted on wearing shades and had this if-you-crash-the-car-you're-toast air around him. And now, I'm this guy who's driving fairly long distances, pretty much fighting Manila's notorious traffic head-on. But I still suck at parking.

Growing up is still something I'd like to resist, but at the same time it's fascinating. More so, now that there's no tangible anything to look for. You're not looking for pubic hair. You're not looking for a deeper voice. You're not telling yourself to do certain things because it's more sensible: it just happens, and the longer you're at it you realize that something has changed.

"There's something new about you," Valerie told me last night, as I sipped my prerequisite Starbucks blended drink. "I can't really explain it, but you've changed."

I think she meant I've changed for the better. I never fully understood what she meant. I know there's some added confidence in my step. Maybe I've really moved on from the past. Maybe I've already entered a new stage in my life, without having to make a fuss about it. Yes, that is a good thing.

"Don't burst my bubble, okay?" she added.

I couldn't burst her bubble. I kinda get her. I kinda agree with her. And, also, I don't get her, so there's no way I could burst her bubble, which is probably the whole point.

Five years ago, I was a college freshman. I remember entering the DLSU campus for the first time and feeling really intimidated by all these people who've got their grooves going. Then again, I was looking at the juniors and the seniors. Then again, my fellow freshmen didn't seem to need more adjusting than I did.

Five years after, I'm a college graduate. It's been two and a half years since I received my diploma. I'm considerably better-adjusted now, and as a slightly productive member of the workforce I'm going through the same things as everybody else: wondering whether there's something beyond where we are, or beyond the limitations of our wallets. And, like everybody else, I'm hoping that I could be a student again, and not care as much as I have to now.

Well, it's easy becoming a student again. I have friends who have pursued further studies after graduation, but that doesn't make things more carefree than they are now. Now we have to earn the money we'll use to pay for our tuition because, more likely than not, our parents won't be shelling out for us. Unless, of course, you're a spoiled kid who can fly to New York on a whim. (Les, I am not referring to you.)

The least we could do is return to our school once in a while, preferably with friends, reminiscing about the good old times. Alumni homecoming, check - but that's often too structured and formal, not that I've been to one. But the end result's the same: you end up returning to college and feeling alienated all over again, like you were as a freshman. Or maybe it was just me.

I've been back to DLSU three times since I graduated. There was the prerequisite return-your-toga-and-claim-your-graduation-photos day, a week after we graduated. There was when I took a leave from work to work on Shale Campaigns. And then there was last night, when I left work - at the usual time, note - only to take two trains rather than one shuttle, to return to my alma mater and enjoy some company.

The first thing I did was send a text message to Gwen. "I'm lost in my own alma mater," I said.

I still knew my way, but I felt really lost. Well, it's more of, I didn't really know why I was on campus. Yes, I know Krizzie invited me to this little event that she's been taking care of for months now. We almost met during the miting de avance a year ago: I was starstruck ("it's the Krizzie Syfu!") and she was starstruck ("it's the Shale Campaigns guy!") and nothing happened until she found my photos and we began talking.

"I hope I could meet you again next time, though," she once told me, "on a much, umm... appropriate circumstance for meeting. Not just on the [amphitheater] while everyone was busy!"

She did invite me before, to the send-off event for the football field, which was giving way to another building. It happened on a Thursday, and it was expected to be an all-night affair, so I begged off. Looking back, it's unusual why I didn't beg off this time. Ating Gabi, this little showcase of talents from the CLA, was also on a Thursday - only it wasn't an all-night affair. Or at least not supposed to be one. It was supposed to end at half past eight, but I ended up leaving an hour later.

The irony was, it wasn't really what she considered a more appropriate circumstance for meeting. Sure, people weren't on the amphitheater being busy - but only because people were being busy at the Central Plaza. Being the head honcho of the event - inevitable when you're president of what is now called the Arts College Government - Krizzie was out and about, acting as gracious host and frazzled organizer, giving away sushi (which I didn't have) and makeshift VIP bracelets made of strips of neon green sticker paper (which I had). The only time we really talked was when I said goodbye, and the only conversation we had was the usual "thank you for coming!" bit. And, earlier, something about one of the better performers.

So, I ended up spending most of my time alone, taking photographs of performances that I'll probably forget soon because I don't really know who's performing. I didn't know anyone apart from Krizzie and the DO people and Mang Ric, who toured me around the expanded television studio earlier than night. It felt weird, being surrounded by ID 109 and ID 110 students, and feeling really intimidated by them - much like when I was a college freshman. I know, I know, it's just me.

Here's a forced observation: the same stereotypes hound any college generation. I know, I've mentioned this before - but it's much more striking when you see them in school, as opposed to the mall. There's always this half-Chinese student who dresses really neatly and sounds like she spends her weekends getting drunk and partying. There's always this small, round person with glasses who looks really responsible and really quiet. There's always this foreign-looking guy with a really Filipino sense of humor. There's always this large, quiet woman who's just going through things steadily. I swear I even saw someone like John, complete with striped polo shirt - only the person has a laptop.

And there I was, watching from the sidelines, wearing a makeshift VIP bracelet and acting as if I know what I'm doing, actually not knowing what I'm doing. I see all these kids with DSLRs and plaid jackets, and I feel really, really old - and slightly bad, considering that they didn't need that much adjusting as opposed to me. Or maybe I just felt really old. I was, I think, the only ID 105 student watching. If Chris didn't have to go to work he'd carry the burden of being the only ID 104 student watching - but then we'd talk about Brenda Lowe.

Thankfully, I still had company. I was supposed to go with Michelle, someone who I barely talked to when we were students, but whose name I knew very well, partly because Les often mentioned her in the same breath as Krizzie. We did chat during the miting de avance as if we've known each other for ages. It's with the same perspective that I invited her to go with me to Ating Gabi: after all, she was also invited, and she also worked in Ortigas. But she's in a much better place than I am, which meant she had to go overtime, which meant I had to ride the trains alone.

But we still spent most of the night together. Well, in between her taking photographs with her DSLR, and a few other conversations in between. She once floated the idea of going as my so-called "date", but I guess the idea fizzled when Janelle, the other so-called "date", failed to arrive. (I later told her I was sort of looking forward to have a photo with her. There was a photo booth. I haven't been in one.) Still, we spent most of the time shouting at each other - we unfortunately stood beside the speakers - bashing the worse performers.

"They're singing clichéd pop songs."

"She's out of tune."

"Stop singing! You're out of tune!"

"The guy's more out of tune."

"Stop singing! You're out of tune!"

"Really! Stop singing! You're out of tune!"

"Why are you reading the lyrics? You don't know the song?"

"You should stick with being DJs!"

"This is painful. They're singing together but I can still hear him."

"I'm sorry, Michelle. I can't hear you. I can only hear him."

"He looks old."

"He's no Cory Monteith. And he doesn't sing that well, to boot."

"Respect the elders!"

I guess, being graduates, we have the license to be really snarky to the students who purportedly have talent. To their credit, they do - but the young ones often are diamonds in the rough, and since we work in the media, we know what we are talking about. (Shoehorned Glee reference: Dianna Agron's fake crying is painfully wonderful. I rest my case.) But we'd also talk about where we've been to since graduation, and all of our frustrations with being alumni rather than potential alumni. We wished we were back, but sometimes there's no better place than being out of it, reminiscing, making real progress as opposed to preparing for it.

Of course, that's subjective - I've been doing the same thing for two and a half years and I'm finding it difficult to say I've moved forward. Krizzie, on the other hand, is in her fifth year in college - I'm not sure if I have my math right - but she's poised for better things than I ever will be. Or maybe it's just me.

Right, the acts that followed that guy who can't sing, the YouTube sensations, as the hosts are bent to drill down our necks. They are much better, those YouTube sensations, save for the bad audio mixing. Them, and the beatboxers, and the soul kids who ended up being the last act. It's not just me. More or less I'm stating the facts, right?

College is a time warp. That is definitely fact.

I wasn't the only ID 105 student around. Ian was there, headphones over his shaved head, fancy video camera in his hands, doing what he later described as "hand-aching stuff". EJ was also there - I knew he'd be there, since Krizzie mentioned that he was also in her guest list - and, after exchanging the usual pleasantries, he gave me a slightly tattered but still fairly fancy business card. Frankly, I didn't really mind whether I was alone or not - the fact that this is a different circle of people, the folks I met mostly through extra-curricular means, speaks for itself. The fact that I didn't feel awkward, even acting like we're just catching up? Maybe I'm just at par with everyone else, and I'm slightly exaggerating things.

Slightly, mind, because I don't normally do beso-beso with people. But hugs were completely inappropriate, so I said goodbye to Michelle like that, and I said goodbye to Krizzie like that. And I walked out of campus, and wondered what I went to school for. My last exchange with Michelle was ringing in my head. "Was it worth your time?" she asked, and I merely shrugged, saying I needed the distraction. And, yes, I needed the company.

Gwen answered me a few hours later. Turns out she was in campus, eating with her friends, not able to reply because, as she argued, "when people eat, it should be above everything else!" Another missed opportunity for a meet-up, but that's what time warps tend to do.