It's the end of the month, and I didn't get the call.

I sort of saw it coming, because Friday passed and it still wasn't there. True, I wasn't really excited about it, but I still had the feeling that I will get it. The interview went well. I can say so myself: I had good answers and better questions, and I didn't leave with an empty feeling in my chest, whispering, "what the hell did you get yourself into?" I had a really good feeling about it, and then I'll find out that I wasn't even considered. Someone else beat me to it.

That should trigger my usual diatribes about how unfair the world is. I always thought that way. There was an interesting conversation I heard on Mancunian radio last week. Never mind that it's a conversation within the context of the North West, because it works perfectly in my context, too. You can't get a job without work experience. You can't get work experience without a job. The news came to me the same way everything else that came before it. I'll realize the dream is over. I'll be hurt. I'll start quoting Squidward after he squeezes a lemon wedge in his eye rather than on his cup of tea. "Why do I even bother?"

All of that did happen. And then nothing.

I was at the mall yesterday. I realize that I hate going to the mall. All those people winding the weekend down, with their preppy outfits and the smug smiles on their faces. It still annoys me. It's like they know what I'm going through - three years of getting screwed - and they know my name, and they'll say, "Niko, just give up and be a call center agent, because that's all you're meant to be." And I'll try not to scream back at them.

I was told not to be discouraged. Everybody's telling me that. I'm just young, and I am supposed to try and try until I make it somehow. Trial and error. And error, and error, and error, and error, and error, and error. I have friends who got it right on the first try. On the first fucking try. It's hard to be happy for them when you can't do the same for yourself, because you keep comparing yourself to them, because you were in the same place and you're much better. That delusion. It never fails.

Maybe I should change my mindset. I noticed it myself. I was trying to be a little more optimistic about things. I'm changing for the better. Soon I will be formidable. And then I try until I make it somehow. And I fail, again and again. I have a safety net but it's never enough. I have friends who got it right on the first try. I have friends who didn't, but are still better off than I am. But I keep my head up. After five years of whining I owe it to myself to see things differently. Or maybe, I owe it to everybody else who's irritated at me. I did it myself, and I forget about what happened.

Nothing's working anymore. The circumstances are different now. I have done my best, but people still manage to screw things up. Nobody fucking cares. More so for folks like me. So what else is left to do, when you can't try anymore, even if everybody tells you to try, and to keep your head up?

I'm just blogging about it now, because I don't care anymore.

I don't fucking care anymore.

Let's talk about that pre-nuptial video, shall we?

To be honest, I actually forgot about that pre-nuptial video. I remember reading about it in the newspaper and shrugging it off. Well, I thought, if that's how they celebrate their love, then so be it. A week later, I'm watching Sunday showbiz talk shows and promptly found out that the video's been labeled as controversial, and all because Maggie Wilson (not to be confused with the woman who ruined the mood at the Allison Iraheta concert) and her beau decided to have a sizzling pre-nuptial video.

I mean, so what if that clip involves the couple pretty much making out in different settings, tastefully (or snazzily, whatever) shot? If that's how they celebrate their love, then so be it. And, of course, there's the fact that what you see on the video will happen after the wedding anyway. And then the report continues - "Maggie Wilson, magsasalita na tungkol sa kontrobersiyal nilang pre-wedding video," that patronizing voiceover said - and I realize something. Right, the bride has a TV show coming up.

That, and the report proceeds to talk about where the video was found. Proud filmmaker uploaded it on his website, where he explains that he charges this much for stuff like it. Of course, he just takes the footage and edits it...

It's been months since that so-called controversy came up, and I'm reading the newspaper again. They got married, so said the headline on the front of one of those snobbish Sunday lifestyle sections - those sections that talk about what everybody else (who can afford it) is up to. Sometimes it's an interesting read, but more often than not it's annoying. You spend your weekends reading the newspaper. One day it talks about all the latest trends, in a tone that screams, "We're pop culture writers, we're awesome!" and "Oh, by the way, we're not screaming at all!" The following day, it talks about all the beautiful people. No need to scream, because it's all out there. We have the name. We have the means. We are entitled to be celebrities. We are entitled to talk about each other and amongst ourselves.

I guess I must be a closet communist, or at least a budding one. I was never this uncomfortable with how opulent people can be. Then again, when I was reading the newspaper at age seven, I never had an inkling of the term "social inequality". Blissfully unaware, perhaps, which is how they like it, I now realize. There's also the fact that we, essentially, talk about the same things. We also get married. We go to parties. We like certain celebrities. But they have church weddings with lavish receptions and newspaper coverage, while we have to wait in line at city hall. They get high on ecstasy (I am that delayed) while we get drunk on brandy. They believe in the power of Sufjan Stevens, while we'll do anything to watch Willing Willie.

Fine, Novaliches is far and I'm not that desperate for money, but you know what I mean.

So, yes, we essentially do the same things, and yet those with more seem to be obligated to bring our tastes down. I'm not saying I don't do this - I remain skeptical of the Korean invasion, believing you cannot replicate Beatlemania. Yes, I'm being snobbish. And yes, I'm being fake, because I grew up with pop tracks that you'd hear in the mass-appeal radio stations, and now I act as if I hate them. But if you are to get an advantage in life, you might as well suck up to people who have more. Be like them, even if it wouldn't bring them to your side. What can a boy who lives in Cavite, never mind my "we're 15 minutes away from Alabang" explanation, do? What more for the rest who aren't that well-off? I can imagine - note, imagine - the subtext those snobbish articles are yelling. We set the agenda. When we write about this fashion blogger, we say she is god. Her word is law. Your style is irrelevant, except when we decide to write about it, and only to point out everything that's wrong about it.

It's just how the world works. It's just how the world I live in works. Our car was stolen in front of our house a few years back. It's not a gated subdivision, but it's still a subdivision, with security and all. Nobody created Task Force Batallones to find where that car went. Or maybe I have to be killed and burned first? No, I don't have money. I'm not denying that what happened to Emerson Lozano and Verson Evangelista isn't tragic, but if not for the fact that the former's father is an influential lawyer best known for all those impeachment complaints, nothing will happen. There won't be a special task force who will connect those murders to the death of a starlet. There won't be reactions from the eternally spineless Malacañang. We won't be scared of driving our cars to work.

Okay, sure, there's that fear - we can talk about those kids who demand loose change from you when you're stuck in traffic along SLEX, but we can only forward emails around! We cannot have the media on our side, giving sixty minutes per newscast to our every emotion and anything spuriously connected to it, the same way they scream about Margarita Fores ("pinsang buo ni Mar Roxas!") getting robbed of her car. Same way nobody will give a damn if I had a pre-nuptial video making out with my hypothetical future wife, unless it's a reaction akin to "nakakadiri ka naman, Niko!"

I'm not forgetting Ernane Sensil. I'm mentioning him last to illustrate my point, unless, of course, you've already dismissed it because I'm not someone like Maggie Wilson, who deserves to get all that mileage out of nothing.

Apparently Jose Fabella - the guy after whom the hospital was named - was the country's first secretary of health. Appointed by President Manuel Quezon before the war, he was, according to a memorial marker, given a free hand to implement reforms he deemed necessary. The guy devoted his time to establishing programs and systems aiming to improve the health of expectant mothers and their children, which explains why the Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital is where pregnant mothers go to give birth - and why it always features during New Year's Eve newscasts, when reporters set out to look for babies who will be born at midnight.

I found myself with a smirk while reading that memorial marker. Thanks to his undying efforts and enthusiasm - I'm paraphrasing here because I failed to bring a camera - the Philippines is now at par with other progressive countries in maternal and children's health, in the cities and in rural areas. And yet the Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital, like most public medical buildings in the country, isn't exactly up to speed with the latest developments - or, at least, so the newscasts suggest. I mean, I've aware of private (and really high-end) hospitals with equipment so advanced it's hard to pronounce. Their marketing staff go out of their way to say that they offer "world-class" service. And here I am, in a public hospital, where fees are considerably less expensive, but everything else seem to be in short order. Or so the newscasts suggest.

So why was I there in the first place? My aunt, who lives twenty minutes away from us, is expecting her second child. She's due tomorrow. They aren't exactly well-off, so my uncle - my mother's brother - asked if we could bring them to the hospital when the day comes. Yesterday my aunt noticed some spotting - I don't know what that means, but she was also experiencing some pain, so they thought that labor was imminent. My dad drove the car and I provided the company, for what might be a pretty long night.

Yes, my aunt also lives in Cavite, and that's made their decision to have their baby daughter delivered at Fabella a bit confusing. The hospital's deep inside Manila, conveniently hidden near the slums that surround the Manila City Jail. It's an hour away from our place. Their seven-year-old, a rambunctious bloke we call Tak, was born in a hospital in Las Piñas. And there's a couple of hospitals a few minutes away from their house!

Turns out my aunt's doctor is based in Fabella. And, somehow, they decided to stick with the guy the whole way. There's also the fact that it's much cheaper there, and compared to other public hospitals, it's pretty well-equipped. Fortunately the hour-long trip was smooth - my aunt wasn't yet in pain, but the doctor suggested that when spotting occurs she could give birth any time.

Fabella is dubbed as a "baby factory" for a reason: mothers go there to give birth. It wasn't particularly packed when we get there, but we saw relatives literally setting up camp at the main entrance, as well as the entrance to the emergency room. A lot of mats, a lot of people sleeping there - and, in the case of one family who were waiting in front of the emergency room, a bunch of picnic baskets. "Kulang na lang, damo," I told my not-so-anxious uncle, recalling childhood trips to Tagaytay. I cannot recall, of course, what happens when there are many people in the hospital.

Outside the emergency room, a handful of pregnant mothers were seated. Apparently, that's where you wait when you cannot be admitted to the hospital yet, because you aren't yet giving birth. The idea is, you check yourself in, have yourself checked, and wait for the go-signal to be admitted. Labor pains? Dilated vagina? Broken water? (That doesn't sound right.) Go in. Otherwise, you wait. If you live far away and cannot afford to go back and forth, you wait. Maybe marvel at how old the building is. Think about how much more comfortable it would be if, like Ale and Ranice, you had a little more money and could afford to get yourself in a private hospital. Not necessarily those high-end ones - just somewhere with a cushion, rather than painted-over metal.

The Philippines is now at par with other progressive countries in maternal and children's health, in the cities and in rural areas.

"Baka naiwan sila sa 1953," my mother said when I told her about it. But the more plausible explanation came from my dad, who explained to me - well, reminded me - how prosperous the Philippines was after the war, thanks in part to post-war compensation from the Americans, but mostly to the fact that our leaders were still patriotic. I can imagine that, back in 1953, Fabella shouted "state-of-the-art!" Now, of course, it isn't. I haven't been inside, but we're heard it over and over again - our public hospitals not being able to accommodate everyone, because they don't have what the patients need. And by that, I mean either equipment or beds, both of which are available in private hospitals that cost a lot more. And then I'd think about how everything became about politics than service, and then to how Martial Law kept us stuck in the past while our neighbors zoomed ahead, and how we all complain when someone well-meaning proposes an idea that's reasonably restrictive but, logically, should work out well in the long run. "Kawawa naman kaming mga Pilipino!"

My aunt wasn't admitted. She wasn't due to give birth yet; it's all because of the medicines she was taking. We went home, still unusually quiet. Within twenty-four hours after she arrived home, her water will break, and my mother will be forced to bring our car - it's a Monday, and our car's plate ends in a 2 - and do everything all over again. And my rambunctious cousin - "si mama, buntis!" he told me last night - will be a big brother to Sabrina, just as I promised him last night. It's a promise I failed to deliver. Not that I have to. It's not really up to me.

"Indeed! We have run out of material!"

It's a random - well, not really - message that I sent Gwen last night. I'm not bent on talking about why it isn't that random. Let's just say that it is, well, random.

Let's just also say that we had a pretty good conversation last night. It lasted for two hours, maybe three, although it only involved the two of us entering words into mobile phones. A pretty good conversation, since we talked about a bunch of things - and I didn't feel a bit conscious about it, which was odd. It just went one way and we went with it, even if it meant my mom catching me smiling after reading a text message.

Maybe I didn't smile. A smirk, maybe? An evil, relishing-your-despair type of smirk?

The conversation went on. Again, we just went with it.

"She was nicer to me," I said. "I was no threat."

"And you must admit, you do have a crush on her?"

"Have I not told you that? I did. A short one until we talked, long before which I had another flavor of the week."

"Oh, flavors."

We're two hours in - or maybe one, I'm not sure - and that's when I feel a bit conscious. There's always a point in the conversation when it just stops without warning. You run out of things to say, and you even forget that you have to say goodbye - but lately you don't really have to say goodbye unless you're talking in person. It also happens that I feel conscious of what the guy I'll hide under the pseudonym "Tim" told me a few years back. Not that it has to do with anything.

"Whaaaat. You know what I mean. Men go from Olivia Munn to some school cutie."

"Yeah, I do. I have more guy friends than girls. And I'm giving up on that."

"It'd be awkward to see you spend time with girls, though. Extended periods of time."

By this time I'm already in bed, rereading a couple of old magazines. I've finished an article on Today when I realize that Gwen won't be replying to that message. The conversation has stopped.

I somehow hate that feeling. The best part of a conversation is towards the end, yes, but it's because it ends just when you start enjoying it. You get the groove, and then it's over. You're left waiting for something that you committed yourself to. And nobody has the courtesy to say goodbye. Not that I'm blaming Gwen. She always did that, except for the night we actually talked in person, and only because we didn't have a choice but to say goodbye. I mean, I can't walk out of the coffee shop while making fun of her inability to browse Twitter through her since-replaced mobile, right?

I've long tried to arrange another coffee date with her, but she's been busy. This time, she said, she won't be as busy, since she only has a few classes, three days a week, and thesis to deal with. But it's better, she said, if we met up early this month. Just I give her a date and she'll make a way.

I've been in a state of flux so far. Time has stopped, or gone really slow. It's the middle of January and I haven't given her a date.