I don't think my sister is annoyed at this habit of mine, but I do it to do just that. Whenever she buys a new book, I take it from her, flip to the last page, go to her, and yell "spoiler!" only to read the very last word in the actual text.

Of course, that last word won't make any sense. It's "you". It's "casserole". It's "cheerleader". It doesn't really spoil anything as you have, say, a hundred thousand words to get through before you get to the very end. That word is out of context. Terribly out of context, at least until you figure out what happened in between.

Not everybody really appreciates it, though. Remember the Lost finale? "It's all about the journey, son," Christian told Jack, giving us this not-so-subtle hint that it's about those in Oceanic 815, and not the mysteries of the DHARMA Initiative. Not everybody liked it. Sure, the series was really floated as a character drama, but people got so invested in the mysteries that they got annoyed when the initial thrust returned in the finale, and in the middle of the finale. Fine, they handled that badly, but looking back, it is about the journey, else that last word - "bear" or "Island" or "Hurley" - would terribly be out of context.

I don't know what my last word is. Surely it has something to do with death, right? It might be "grave" or "earth". But fine, I'll stop being ridiculous and focus on the more immediate future. The only semblance of a last word that I have comes from that feng shui master my father once consulted. Remember that bit about my next ten years being a bunch of ups and downs before I settle down in some degree of success? Let's say the last word is "happy". Somehow my book will end that way. At least before I die and make everyone around me sad.

Now, I want to be happy and successful now, but things haven't really been favorable to me. Friends? Middling. Romance? Hesitant. Career? Stuck. Heck, I just got a letter from the mail today, confirming the very fear I had a few weeks back. But when I opened the letter, I was actually grinning.

Sure, it's how complicated things can get. I wanted to quit my job but I couldn't, and now I'm pretty much without a job. Quitting will make me happy. Quitting will make me anxious. Quitting will restore my hope. This is crazy. I am crazy. Everybody has said so and now I don't understand what's going on, especially why I'm being quite optimistic about it. Or, at least, not as cynical, like being told I've changed and not exactly countering it. Or saying goodbye to old friends, and saying hello to new ones, and remaining unsure about everybody else. Or all these new experiences, like this, and bleep, and bleep. And they'll somehow make sense of that last word, in a decade or so. The question is, of course, how.

"It's all about the journey, son," Christian told Jack, before a weird reunion scene in what turned out to be the afterlife. Nobody liked it, but looking back, it made sense. Only you don't have much time to celebrate being happy and all. That last word becomes a short-lived thing, before it gets replaced by "grave" or "earth" or something. Before you know it, those new friends and new experiences and restored hope in something - humanity, romance, whatever - it goes poof. But you were living it all this time, not dwelling on it.

How do you prevent your Christmas messages from sounding very cheesy? Insert some much-needed cynicism.

I'll be honest: 2010 didn't go that well, but it could've been worse.

Fine, that isn't exactly cynical. When I sent that message to 72 people - a surprisingly bigger number compared to last year's extravaganza - I realized that it sounds cheesier, because it pretty much celebrated the person on the other end. Yay, you! it went. So thanks for the company (and strings!) and here's to a better 2011. Happy holidays!

But the admission is still there: this year sucked, especially since this was the year when I told myself I'll get myself out of this rut and improve things. Or, did I tell that to myself, or did I cram that promise again? Damn you, complacency. But you can't really be cynical when the facts suggest that it could've been much worse. It could've been much worse. I'm really just glad for the company, even if it doesn't amount to much.

Thing is, at the end of the day, now that I'm seated here and writing my traditional Christmas eve what-did-people-reply blog entry, it didn't really amount to much. Sure, I didn't get a "who are you?" text message like I always did, but I guess people are just too busy... or the phone lines are already fudged at fifteen before eight in the morning.

From Carmel Puertollano: Niko! Di na kita nakakausap sa YM! Insert laughter, which I wouldn't write here, of course. Happy holidays to you.

From Carmel Puertollano again, after I explained that YM tends to crash my PC: Ako rin, di na nagwa-YM. Wala na akong laptop eh. Cue more laughter.

From Anna Abola: I haaate 2010. More laughter. Here's to a beautiful 2011! Merry christmas, Niko, followed by a smiley, which I also wouldn't write here.

From Anna Abola again, after I pointed out that there are two zeros this year: I know. She sent this twice, oddly.

From Samantha Pagkalinawan: 2010 passed by so fast... it wasn't as exciting as the past year, but I'm glad I survived. Now this is cheesy. On the flipside, I got her number right! She has three numbers listed on my phone and only one of them works, and I really had to guess which one it is. Hoping for a better and exciting 2011 for you, and for me, manedyer. Old biter references, yes. Happy holidays, Henrik! Wait, she called me Henrik?

From Drea Dizon: Bakit namaaaan?

From Drea Dizon, after I gave her a shortened variation of the explanation I posted early in this entry: Okay. 2011 will be better. Merry Christmas!

From Erik Lozano, who surprisingly replied: Cheers to a better 2011. Happy holidays! Or was this a generic message? I shouldn't complain. I sent a generic message myself.

From Joy Simpson: Happy holidays, Niko! Have a great time at Bangkok! Yes, I'm flying to Bangkok in a couple of days, and she's been helpful in telling me where to go, since I was, oddly, assigned to do the family's itinerary for a whole week. Wishing you a great 2011, with more opportunities and la-la-la-love.

From Jill Cruz: Happy new year, Niko!

From Kim Malicsi: Happy holidays, Niko! 2011, please don't be harsh. Cue sheepish laughter. God bless!

From Issa Arias, who finally made it to this entry: Happy holidays, Henrik.

From Krizzie Syfu: A lot of people say that 2010's been a bitch. Cue laughter. Right, you must laugh this year being a bitch off. But don't give up just yet! A few more days for 2010 to make up to ya! I'm sure she meant Bangkok, right? Happy holidays!

From Icka Alcantara: Happy holidays, Niko!

From Mae Ong, who barely made it: Hey Niko! Merry Christmas to you, too.

Twelve people. Twelve people! I'd complain at this point, but considering that at this point people have moved on and have become busy even on a holiday, well, I should understand. Or maybe they're preparing messages for tomorrow. Or maybe the phone lines have crashed this early on, like they seem to be over the past few weeks. But that's just me being cynical. I'll admit, my Christmas greeting is partly fueled by an unusual feeling of loneliness over the past couple of months or so.

Or maybe we're all going through that stage collectively? That reminds me of my conversation of sorts with Ning last night. Exact same points. I'll take Krizzie's advice to heart now, and proceed to pin all my hopes on Bangkok. Happy holidays, kids! There are two ones in 2011, remember.

That was cheesy, yes.

Depending on how style magazines have shaped your definition of grooming, I'm either decently groomed or terribly unkempt. It's harder to define when you ask me. All I know is, I don't feel very dirty when I'm out, and I try to keep my appearance in check whenever I can. But I don't brush my hair, and my face isn't exactly as flawless as those men's magazines want you to think. If I understood it correctly, it probably means lots of make-up.

My philosophy is simple: if you have to work on it, then by all means, do so. I wash my face, nothing fancy, a lesson I somehow picked up from Anna, someone I met in high school, who once suggested that I wash my face just with water when I had a pimple breakout. (I should say I adapted the tip, since I use a facial wash nowadays.) I have monthly visits to the barber, and over the years I've pretty much figured out what to ask. My hair's been compared to a carpet, which makes every attempt to style it a bit of a nightmare, so I just ask for a shave and some snips. I can't call it a buzz cut, but I don't know what else to call "semi-kalbo, tres".

Save for one instance when I accidentally asked for a shampoo and a hair treatment and ended up shelling out five hundred bucks - a story Jackie, who was then still in the country, spun as a chance for me to pamper myself on my birthday - I've stuck with the haircut, and then some. My carpet-like hair leads to slightly unruly facial hair, which I never really paid attention to until my burgeoning moustache started to tickle my upper lip ever so slightly. Now, I've always looked up to my dad for his grooming - nothing fancy, but he does go to proper business events, and he's my dad - and he suggested that I have my barber pass his scissors through my moustache and trim it a bit.

So, every two months or so - well, actually, whenever I remember it - I ask my barber to trim my moustache. I was advised not to shave it, something about the hair that will grow back getting tougher to remove. I never really understood that logic, but it does make sense when you think about underarm hair, which I've never thought of trimming. Yes, since I mentioned it, it took me twenty-one years to learn how to shave, and it's because the hairs on my chin are starting to tickle me ever so slightly. I got a lesson from my dad, as well as permission to use his shaver once in a while, and it felt surreal when I ended up teaching my younger brother how to shave, since I am 21 and he is 15.

But that leaves my upper lip still in the hands of my barbers. I'd ask them to trim it, and they'd leave me hanging just a little bit. The problem is, I'm never really clear with what I want, but I want my moustache trimmed more than just a couple of snips. My dad doesn't have a moustache, but look closely (read: stare at his face) and you'll see the hairs barely there. I want it that way. The moustache sort of defines my look now - well, it's really more of me getting used to it, in the same way black-framed glasses define my look - and I can't get rid of it. My uncle once had his moustache removed, and it looked really weird, because he had this thick, brushy moustache, suggesting his age.

Today I had my usual haircut, but I was in a different barber shop. I usually had my haircuts after work, which meant swinging by at the Shang and flipping through the aforementioned men's magazines, telling you that what you do is far from enough. In this case, I decided to have my hair cut by my dad's preferred barber in Alabang - the shop decided that their barbers' Christmas bonuses would come from all that they earn on this particular day, with management not taking a single cent. I was glad to pitch in, although I was reminded of my little dreams of having my preferred barber, of having to ask "andiyan si Mar?" every time I come in, of having someone to chat with rather than being forced to reread tattered copies of Men's Health.

I asked Mar - that is the barber's name - to have my moustache trimmed. Instead of using scissors, he had a razor blade. I'd call it a labaha, but I can't call it a barber's knife. The end result: I look like my uncle. Or, when you factor in my haircut and my glasses, I look like Boy Abunda, which is exactly what all my high school classmates called me. My dad had this bewildered look. I just said - covered my tracks, or spun it positively, whatever - by saying that I'd rather have a fresh start, so my upper lip won't look so unkempt in a month's time. But man, I couldn't get it right.

I'm only supposed to talk about how my Christmas shopping came in at the worst possible time.

The irony is, all I wanted to do was to avoid the Christmas rush, so the gloves came off over the past two weeks. Well, there is another reason: I just wanted to get the process over with, because the overexcited part of me has been holding on to those gift ideas as early as July.

Yes, July. That was when the family wandered into a record store, for some particular reason. My dad was looking at this live CD of Paul McCartney, and when I realized he was taking a serious interest in it, I automatically thought it should be my Christmas gift for him.

Now, I don't really take these things seriously, but I do have the tendency to keep all these notes in my head many weeks, if not months, in advance. On the day I went to Fully Booked I bought myself a Christmas gift - yep, it's the Ingrid Betancourt book, which I finished reading last week - and I found a book that I thought my sister would be interested in. At the time she was going through an Oscar Wilde phase, a hangover from ten terms of studying literature. I found a book about the author - note, not one of his works, but a book about him.

Thing is, when I buy gifts for people, I take it as a chance to, well, impose my tastes on them. Yes, I don't take my Christmas gifts too seriously, which explains why that chance doesn't always come into the picture. But while my sister prefers reading fiction, I figured she'll appreciate reading non-fiction about things she's interested in. My sister will be forced to read a non-fiction book because I said so! Cue another mental note: I'll pick the book up when I return to that Fully Booked branch.

Thing is, I never had the chance to return. The usual complaint, of course, goes somewhere along the lines of it's totally against the way. And with many other bookstores around me, well, why should I get out of my way?

Somewhere along the way, though, my sister has a change of heart, sort of. "Gusto ko ng Hunger Games," she said, already buoyed by testimonies, from her friends, on how good (supposedly) the trilogy is. Not that I mind, but when she told me that I'm only seeing the expensive hardbound versions on shelves, never mind that she's only asking for the first book. I ended up buying all three - although, yes, it's the paperbound box set that's popped up in bookstores in recent weeks. All three books for a thousand bucks. Perfect Christmas gift. Wonderfully spazzed-out reaction from my sister. There goes Gwen's month-old suggestion.

My gift plans for my dad went to a halt when Music One closed its remaining shops. The Paul McCartney CD went poof with it. Sure, there are many other record stores around, but I couldn't find it anywhere, which is unusual on one hand, and expected on another - proof that the Philippines is screwed when it comes to music choice. (Unless, of course, you define "choice" as "derivatives of the guy who's supposedly snogging Selena Gomez".) But this year is the year when Yoko Ono decided to mark the death of her husband by rereleasing all of his solo albums. John Lennon's greatest hits compilation! It totally makes sense! Getting a text message from my dad the following day - "I love it!" - reaffirmed my faith in the cosmos for a good five seconds.

My plans for my mother, on the other hand, didn't really exist. In the two years I've been giving holiday gifts, I made it a point to ask her what she wanted - it's hard to second guess what your mom wants when you're male, after all. This year she wanted a top from Adidas, one she particularly spotted during another mall trip a month ago. I could've bought it then, but I was still holding back on my money. I'd later regret that decision: when we went back to the store, the folks revealed that the only stock remaining was the one on display. It's slightly dirty and it's not in her size, and we couldn't see it anywhere else.

At the time, however, my mom's starting to have some interest in, of all things, Starbucks mugs. She initially hoped for some friend to give her a tumbler in one of their many Christmas parties, but when my dad went home from London with a mug from the coffee chain that had "London" written (and illustrated) all over, she had a Jimmy Neutron-style brain blast. A collection of Starbucks mugs from all over the world! It totally makes sense! So she asked me to buy her a similar mug with "Manila" all over it.

There wasn't one at the Alabang Town Center. I ended up buying her a generic mug. She ended up finding the mug she wanted at a Starbucks branch nearby. I felt like an utter failure.

It was nothing compared to when I started thinking of a gift I'll give my younger brother. I've always given him CDs: Metallica one time, Weezer another time, and Them Crooked Vultures in between. Sure, we don't share the same tastes in music - his preference for metal and hip-hop is pathetic, frankly - but at least I can give him something that he likes. Problem is, he's my younger brother, and we've never really gotten along most of the time. He never played the CDs I gave him, except perhaps for the Metallica one. He never really appreciated my gifts, perfectly summed up when he came up to me and asked me to stop buying him CDs. "Nado-download ko naman yan," he said. "Bigyan mo naman ako ng magagamit ko."

Oh, fuck you, generation gap. I'm making an effort and he never really liked it all along - what could be more disheartening than that? And what do I give him for Christmas? I was supposed to give him the newly-minted Soundgarden compilation, but now I have to think of what a virtual Alabang kid who doesn't know the value of music, refuses to read anything, and rebuffs every attempt I make to ask him about anything.

I've bought outfits for other people before. Last year I gave my father a shirt, but only because I didn't have an inkling what he wanted, and I never got around to ask him. So, sure, I'll just buy my brother one of those collared tops from Human, because they're more likely to fit him than me. (Remember rule number two: guys are not allowed to be insecure about themselves.) Another chance to impose my tastes on people. I'll pick what looks good to me! Then again, I didn't really have a choice - I don't really know what he likes to wear.

Over the weekend I decided to finally buy him a shirt. To boot, I had him come along so I don't act as clueless. On the way, my sister called. "May sale sa Topman," she went. I ended up buying my brother two baseball shirts, or so they're called, both of his choosing, all clocking in neatly under my thousand-peso budget. All the time I was having flashbacks to my second trip to Singapore, when I found myself wandering into a Topman branch, looking to buy myself a shirt, and realizing that nothing fits me - not even its largest size. Damn hipster clothing, I thought. Damn hipsters and their perpetration of body issues. I proceed to break rule number two. My brother has a lot of friends, perhaps a girlfriend, and is way more popular than me. I did the complete opposite and I thought, all this time, that I'm set for the future. All I get is a bruised ego when he brushes me off for trying to be a big brother to him. He has the gall to brush me off.

This whole process is such an asshole. But I'm only supposed to talk about how my Christmas shopping came in at the worst possible time. No further paragraphs. Shutting up now.