There's this story making the rounds on Facebook today, about a guy who was found dead in his office desk. Apparently he suffered from a heart attack while working and has been dead for five days.

Five days. And nobody even noticed him.

Nobody asked him if he's okay. Nobody wondered if anything was wrong with him. Nobody even noticed that he hasn't changed his clothes, or even his position, for five days.

Of course, the workplace might be the issue. Apparently he's doing some work for medical textbooks. I can only imagine how stressful that is. One room, fifteen cubicles, perhaps twenty people, all of their attention focused on getting those textbooks out on time. Conversations about hard-to-pronounce medical terms and how to nail them on the computer. I get why nobody will notice him. And sure, maybe the guy worked too hard that his heart conked out. Myocardial infarction! And everybody else was too busy getting that term right, to the point that they didn't notice that it's happening in front of them. Or beside them, or something.

The article's angle, after all, was something along the lines of "don't work too hard."

Of course I'd be incensed by that article, partly because it brings back memories of my two-and-a-half year stint in Ortigas where nobody pretty much cared for me. Yeah, that's all behind me now, the thought of forced conversations and let's-not-talk-about-him mindsets. Supposedly. I remember my chair breaking when I sat down one day, and that got their attention, and they even managed to insult me.

"Okay ka lang ba?"

"Obivously, hindi."

No. I'm incensed more by the fact that the article is telling us to not work hard. Sure, I get it. Take some time off. Take a break. Talk to friends. Go out once in a while. Drink seventeen shots of tequila but don't drink two bottles of beer. Or, if you do drink two bottles of beer, approach the nearest girl and force yourself upon her, and try to dodge a sexual assault charge.

What I mean is, the suggestion that we not work so hard has a big implication. It's not just "take a break". It's "you don't need to work that hard to succeed."

Okay. You're saying, but you're just forcing that thought. And sure, maybe I am. But think about it. Working alone won't get you anywhere - it kills you when you do it too much, apparently. No. You have to grease the wheels a bit. Talk to people. Reach out to them. Suck up to them. It's actually more productive when someone distracts you from working. And sure, I definitely get that. You cannot survive by just crunching numbers and not talking to people.

But somewhere along the way, it becomes all about the talking and not the working. When it's all about the people you know, and the people you care about, rather than the things you know, and the things you've done. So, sure, I feel bad for the guy. He worked his ass off only to die - and only to remain unnoticed for five days. Nobody gave a damn until, perhaps, they started smelling some stench in his cubicle. Nobody gave a damn until he forced their hands by having a heart attack - myocardial infarction! - and dying there, staying there. You know. While they all just worked and chatted in between. And left for lunch. And asked if they can take a ride home. And go hang out at the bar. And maybe avoid a sexual assault charge.

Definitely avoid that awkward looking guy because he just doesn't look like your type.

It sucks that life has become a social game. Just a social game.

That photograph almost didn't happen.

You see, in an attempt to capitalize (I think) on the fact that this is the first time the American Idol summer tour left North America - this is their only gig outside the continent - the ticket prices are high. Really high. I've been spoiled by my Vertical Horizon experience so I wouldn't settle for anything that doesn't provide a good view of the action. Also, it's Haley Reinhart. It's Haley freaking Reinhart. The girl who had the chops but didn't quite do well in the beginning, until this and this and this and this happened, and until we all hoped that she'd break what was looking like an all-country finale, which happened anyway.

But, I thought, I don't want to spend most of my monthly salary on watching Haley do a few songs, and having to sit through acts I never cared about. (Read: big toddler.) So, as the television ads started making all the Solar channels unwatchable, I told myself that I'm not watching the concert. Maybe if Haley gets a record deal (she did) and releases an album (she hopefully will) and returns to the Philippines (she must) then I'll go.

That was a couple of months ago. Throughout that time I was rationalizing my decision by asking, "how many people will watch the concert exactly?" I've covered Idol for three years and I don't think the last two seasons had a really big following - gone are the days when David vs David mattered. And then the producers added a second date, and I found myself really bewildered. But it never changed my decision.

Turns out I didn't have to. I was catching up with work last Friday when I saw a tweet from Jean, talking about an "ATC gig" involving Haley, along with three other finalists: Casey Abrams, Jacob Lusk and winner Scotty McCreery.

"There is an ATC gig?" I replied back. "I must go."

More of a meet and greet really, but still, it's something you do not dare miss. It costs way less than a ticket to a concert with people you don't like. And it's right in my backyard! And I might have a photo with Haley! Dexter will be so proud.

Knowing ATC, the photograph won't happen. The host at the actual event was quite apologetic about it. "Bad news," he described it. But whatever. The photograph with Allison Iraheta wasn't completely expected either (but heavily hoped for). The least I could do is say hello, and be able to proudly say that I met Haley freaking Reinhart.

The only other person to see my frantic replies was Kimmy, who badly wanted to go, if not for the fact that it's happening in Alabang - and, if you're in the north, Alabang is a province. She's also a big Haley fan (and a Casey fan to boot) so, I figured, there's no reason to miss it. She tried, she really tried, but she ultimately didn't go. Madel also wanted to go but also said it's too far. (She should've heard of the fan who came from Quezon City. And that one who came from Bulacan.) Mika, another one of my David Cook contacts, had to study. And Mooie? She thought I was meeting Hayley Williams, and was this close to coming with me. To be fair, I told her about it because we talked about those expensive tickets before.

I ended up going with Jean, who went with her friend Ruby, who went with her mom, or so I believe. The upside to this is, I didn't have to stand near the stage to wait for a line to form, since we ended up staying in the jewelry shop Ruby's in. The downside is, we didn't see the line form. The upside is, we were ahead in line - and I had stub number 62. And I was in the mall thirty minutes after it opened. People actually waited.

I guess I shouldn't have doubted the number of people who had an interest in Idol's tenth season. I honestly thought - and objectively, I must also add - that most Filipinos would go for Haley, whose musical sensibilities were really through the roof. Well, most of my friends were for Haley. Also, I never thought country would have a following here. But there were a lot of people later in the afternoon, mostly kids my age, but a significant bunch of them were mothers. They weren't just there to accompany their kids: they wanted to meet Scotty. Yes, Scotty, the nice kid. My Idol cohort this season, Carla, did once write that Scotty is like the son she wanted to have. She was on to something all this time.

Ruby was for Scotty too. She found him cute. Jean wasn't sure about which CD to buy: she ended up buying both Scotty and Haley's EPs. And pretty much most of the girls were for Scotty, too, judging from the loud screams that came in when he finally made it to the stage, a good thirty minutes behind schedule. Turns out I am terribly outnumbered. Not that I mind. I did say he wouldn't last long, but I prefer him over the attention whore.

I did wait a good six hours before the finalists hit the stage. I had to sit through - no, stand through, because there were no seats - a performance from one of those artists who can only sing acoustic versions of pop songs, and a (pretty good) host who both tried to get the audience going while reminding us that, no, we can't take photographs with our favorites. I can't have a photograph with Haley. Not happening. No.

In between, I was texting Kimmy, who seemed like she's regretting her decision not to come down south. "Say hi to Haley and Casey for me!" she said, and we ended up hatching a plan: she'd text me her message to the growlers, and I'd show it to them. It was a loophole in the rules that I was willing to exploit. I guess I was extra willing to make it work, since the AV guy was just playing Haley's CD on the big speakers. Bennie and the Jets for everyone to hear. A pretty surreal feeling, if you ask me.

I wasn't the only one feeling that way. The finalists were pretty overwhelmed too. They came out all holding cameras, taking photos or videos of the frantic crowds. Me, I was just failing with my photographs (as usual) while wondering why Jacob was wearing a sando of sorts. Casey had a scruffy beard. Scotty was, well, Scotty. And Haley? She was wearing short shorts. Flaunt what you have, I figured. She was on to something all this time.

Interestingly, Jacob was the guy who got everyone going: he was really soaking in the crowd, very vocal in greeting us. Casey was more subdued that Smells Like Teen Spirit suggested. The other two were, well, cute. Haley had the biggest smile, while Scotty looked really grateful for the experience. (I couldn't say much about him, really, because whenever he speaks, the girls go wild.) Both of them tried to speak some Filipino, as you'd expect, but Haley got "mahal kita" spot-on. She really should go back.

Yes, all this time, I was quite calm. I remember seeing Allison, and feeling quite nervous about it. This time, it's like I've been through it all - clearly not the case - and this is just one of those things. Or I got used to the idea that I cannot have a photo with Haley, and that I also blew my one shot at asking her a question, by addressing it to everyone.

"What's the best thing that happened to you in the US tour that you want to see here in the Philippines?"

"Seeing everyone enjoy every kind of music," Casey answered.

I should've asked Haley about almost filling in for Lauren during the finale. So much for press privileges.

I had it all planned out, really. I'll say hello to everyone, maybe shake a few hands, and have Haley sign my CD, while they all sign the poster that I got for free. I think I kinda planned to tell Haley that I've written about her, in the hopes that I'll be recognized somehow. Nah, I actually wanted to tell her that she's lovely. That exact adjective. I was hoping that Kimmy would have sent me her message by then, but when she asked me if she can still send one, I was already in line, and the foreign entourage decided to have things their way. They wanted it all to end soon, and ended up ruining it all.

Scotty signs the poster.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine! How are you?" I replied.

"Good."

Then he signs the poster with his name. I move to the next seat, and Haley, who gets the poster. Moment of truth. I prepared her CD's inlay for her to sign.

"Only one," the foreign girl behind her insisted. "Only one."

Haley looked at her and realized she can't do anything.

"I'm sorry," she told me, in that delicious (that's objective) voice of hers, as she signed the poster. "But thanks for buying the CD!"

She then passes the poster to Jacob, while saying something that suggests that she's overwhelmed. Jacob just signs the thing. I never even got to say hello to him.

He then passes the poster to Casey, who was more accommodating.

"Hey man," he said.

"Hey! How are you?" I replied.

"Good, good!"

He draws his face on the poster. Emphasis on the scruffy beard. I thanked him and left the stage, and the cordoned-off area... and that was it.

Things like this always tend to be five hours of hype and five minutes of disappointment. I really wanted Haley's CD signed. That's what I came for! And then some snobbish woman who probably was never a fan of anybody during her high school years decided to take it all away from me. I say "me" because Jean and Ruby had better luck, since they had Scotty CDs: he signed those. Ruby even got a hug from the guy - and rubbed cheeks, however you translate "beso-beso" - before the bouncers came tumbling in. And they didn't even do a good job, because Jean got to hug Casey. And I didn't even get to shake their hands.

But whatever. I still got to meet Haley freaking Reinhart, and that's all I wanted to do. She is, as I expected from those performances and those behind-the-scenes videos and her interview with Michael Slezak, lovely.

Still. Damn. No photographs.

For the past two weeks I've been looking for a way to write about the 9/11 attacks, without talking about me, or high school, or ever going, "well, Niko, that's ten years of cynicism, then!"

Well, really, I've been trying to write something that will make sense of it all. Maybe I should say I'm trying to sound like a smartass, sound like I absolutely get things, when all I've done is watch the news channels over the past decade and take in all I know. I haven't even read any of those conspiracy theories.

The closest I am to exerting effort for this blog entry is to try to reach Jeany. Yes, we're talking again, but she's still as hard to get a hold of. She was in New York ten years ago, and I thought I'd write a journalistic piece of sorts about being roughly eleven, maybe twelve, and looking out of your window and seeing the World Trade Center go down.

She did, however, talk to Youth Radio half a year back, around the time when Osama Bin Laden was killed.

Some of my friends had family who died in the World Trade Center. The trauma I experienced that day, and months after that, seems like nothing compared to what the families and friends of these victims went through.

Before 9/11, I lived a charmed life in Tribeca. My favorite thing to do with my dad was eating dinner at Windows on the World Restaurant as a kid. Aerial views of the city from the 100th or so floor made Manhattan look like a dollhouse with yellow Hot Wheels cars. God, I miss that view terribly.

After 9/11, We couldn't go back to our apartment for months. I was in constant anxiety that year wondering, "When will I go home? Do we have a home? Is my stuff okay? I hope my clothes aren’t chemically toxic." Downtown Manhattan was my home, and I so badly wanted to return. Eventually, we did move back into our old apartment in May of 2002 to find our possessions under a mountain of toxic dust. My mother arranged for our apartment to be fumigated, and when we moved back in, we had to get new towels, rugs, kitchen appliances.

Recently I've been (sort of) poking fun at Jean for being such a quintessential New Yorker, and one who lives in Manhattan at that. Sure, she already lives a less-than-usual existence, but when we talk it's like she's just some girl who's looking for her place in the world, apart from her apartment at Times Square. I'm flicking through back copies of New York, figuring out how one can keep track of all this - and I don't even get Manila - and she absolutely gets it.

After I returned to Tribeca, I eventually resumed my normal day-to-day life with my family and blocked out all those traumatic feelings I experienced that year. I try not to think about 9/11 - getting in depth with it floods everything back like a freight train that is ready to retard my mindset.

Ten years later, life did go on.

But of course she didn't forget it. She was there. I wasn't, but I didn't forget it, either. I think I know, pretty well, how much more suspicious we all have gotten since those terrorists hijacked those planes. Say, protesters at the US Embassy. Protesters at a gas station, ranting about oil cartels. Jeany telling me to visit New York, and me always telling her that it's hard, mostly because of the money, but significantly because the American government will probably never trust me ever again.

But at the same time we've moved on and gone about with our lives. We did not exactly live the rest of our lives in fear: all of the suspicion, all of the removed shoes, they just became a fact of life, and it never stopped us from being what the fundamentalists might call "infidels". We do things differently, but we never really crawled back in our shells. (Not that it stopped the fundamentalists from calling us "infidels".) It's like looking south and seeing nothing where a tall steel building used to be - and where a construction site now is.

Not that I know this from experience. When it happened, I was at home, halfway around the world, helping out with my sister's homework, when my brother came out of his room and told me, "kuya, may dalawang building, nasusunog."

They do say you'll never forget where you are when it all happened.

A couple of weeks back I was with my grandparents in Caloocan. Pretty much the whole clan was there, cramped in a pretty small space, playfully jostling over who gets to each lunch first, something determined by who gets to the house first - in this case, we were first, so I got to enjoy my grandmother's batchoy first.

"Ano to, 'la? Dugo?" I asked.

"Oo, dugo yan," she answered, and I just chowed down.

That day my grandfather decided to get many of his old photos and compile them into one photo album. I thought it was an odd decision, because the photos were stored nicely in many other photo albums. He was a photographer when he was much younger - I'm not sure if he ran a photo studio, but he definitely knew his way around the lens, judging from how well he framed things. I borrowed his SLR for photography class, for one.

Anyway, I've seen those photos before, but that day I decided to look at those again. They were mostly shot in the 1960s and 1970s, and pretty much told the family's whole story. There was a photo of my grandparents, then newly-married - I figured my grandfather did not take that photograph, because it had somebody else's name on it. But everything else was his - photos of my uncles and aunt when they were little, posing outside their home (the very same home in Caloocan) or around many places in Manila. Ahh, Manila in those times had lots of parks. They definitely had their options.

My grandparents weren't exactly the richest. My grandfather worked at a nearby paper factory, a thing he did for the longest time, since I remember being a grade schooler and getting extra crepe paper from him. My grandmother, on the other hand, worked in a factory, and at one point tended to a sari-sari store in front of her home. I remember this one photo where she was holding a placard with some other women. A strike, I was told.

I don't think she spent a lot of time working, because most of the photos I was flicking through featured her and my uncles and aunt - and, if you're asking, eventually, my dad, the youngest in the bunch. He was squirming in the camera like a little boy always does. This family photo I liked? He wasn't looking straight.

When my grandparents renewed their marriage vows a few years back, my dad told this story. He is, technically, the fifth child: my grandparents had a fourth, a daughter, who passed away a few days after birth. They wanted four kids, so they tried again, and here I am.

Early this year the whole Dela Cruz clan - that's my grandmother's side of the family - had a reunion. One of her sisters, my Nana Crising, returned from Washington DC and we all had this pretty big party at a restaurant nearby. She was the only one among all six siblings to get to college and get a good job, and when she recalled that she couldn't help but cry. It was really hard for them, she said, so us little kids should never take for granted what comfort we have in life now.

My grandmother certainly took it in stride. She's a jolly fellow, perhaps loud-mouthed, but definitely jolly. I remember when I was at her place, just me and my dad, after bringing her to the hospital to have her foot checked. We bought lunch from Chowking and we realized it wasn't going to be enough - no, that's not the story... I'm not really sure what happened, but I was at her home, helping her out by slicing vegetables for the lumpiang hubad she was going to cook for lunch that day. Yeah, that was another family reunion. It's a step, because I would've loved to watch her cook dinuguan.

Yesterday she was rushed to the hospital. She was nursing a high fever the past couple of days. Not sure what exactly happened. An infection that got to the brain, the doctors figured. Early this morning she flatlined. I woke up today to my mom telling the news that my Lola Pining has passed away.

On Grandparents' Day, no less.

I can see it now. I will definitely die alone.

I will be in my 70s, still living in this house, alone. My parents would've died by now. My siblings would have their own families, and are living in their own places. That leaves me, watching over this house, while not exactly taking care of it, since it will be messier than it is now - my mother is meticulous, as you'd expect - and the whole place is breaking apart.

There'd probably be many jars in the kitchen, of things I fancied buying, ended up buying, and never consumed much of. My current room will be dusty, which means I can't spend time there unless I want another asthma attack. I'd be sleeping in the master bedroom, only with a dead air conditioner.

And the tables would be full of stuff that I can't be bothered to pick up and put away. Every surface, really. Decades-old magazines piled in every corner, no longer organized like I would, because I'd read them anyway, over and over again. What would I do in my free time anyway? I'd look over the house, read the newspaper, go nostalgic about the past, and maybe play The Sims in my now terribly obsolete computer. For hours. And then I'd get frustrated because my game is corrupted again, and then I'll feel bad for myself. So why am I here anyway? I'd ask.

One day I will realize that my house is getting too messy even for me. I will have to store my magazines from the time when Justin Bieber was still king. I will decide to keep some of them in my old room. I will get in there, stacks of Q in tow, and I will take in all the dust, and I will have an asthma attack, a severe asthma attack. And that will be the end of the story.

If my parents are to be believed, I will die alone. They will say that whenever they can. I'd tell them about how my friends are treating me - like shit, really - and they'd tell me that I'm doing things all wrong. I justify my actions, and they'll say that I'm screwing this up. At this rate, they'd always say, nobody will want to spend time with you. You will die alone. A scary thought, but one that's looking all true at the moment.

I'm just 22, but here I am, wondering about where I will end up. I refuse to acknowledge my parents' belief that I screwed up, but I also believe that I screwed up. I shouldn't have gone against the grain, for one. I should've been more forgiving of the people around me. I should've been more malleable and less rigid. Now, I'm getting by, but I spend seven days of the week at home, virtually alone, relying on people halfway around the world for conversation that will never reach the level of understand that you've always hoped to see from the people you deal with in person. And I'd be on Twitter, seeing people invite other people for things. How come I'm never considered? I'd wonder. Well, either I'm not really their priority, I'd continue, or I'm just absolutely repulsive, more repulsive that I know I am. Why else would they not want me around? And then I'd realize that my parents might be right. And I'd resist that notion yet again.

I never understood the need for rules to deal with the world, really. For one, these rules contradict each other. Be yourself, but don't do this because I don't like that. That is the golden rule. Be yourself, but within limits. In other words, be like everybody else. And be confident. There is no room in this world for people like you, Niko - for people who are completely unsure of what they are doing, because that makes for uncomfortable relations.

But they contradict each other, so I've gone about things just winging it, basically. I give others a chance, but I don't get one. I try my best to be good, only to be abandoned midway through the flight. I start friendships but people disregard you anyway, because really, what's the use of getting to know new people when I have people who I already know for the longest time?

My parents think I will reach my 70s alone, and it's all my fault.

I will, however, reach my 70s alone, and blame all of you for not giving me a chance.