It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and my friends are neither and both.

Bingeing on Friends is probably one of my better decisions this year. I like Ross’s charming pronunciations and Joey’s obliviousness; I find Monica’s compulsions a little sad (because I’m that kind of person) and Rachel is Rachel is Rachel, the most unaware character of the show (I’m only on Season 1, please don’t judge); I am, however, much too infatuated with Chandler and Phoebe.

Episode 4 has this scene where the girls have a sleepover and Rachel gripes about not having a plan since breaking up with her orthodontist fiancé and Monica and Phoebe proceed to comfort her with words of sympathy. Phoebe, because she’s Phoebe, brings up a seemingly off-tangent Jack and the Beanstalk comparison, and the stories work for a while — at least until Rachel articulates on screen my greatest, deepest fear in life: what if it’s not gonna be fine.

Alone, I laughed the most awkward laugh I have ever heard from myself in all of my self-conscious life.


Before Nina, a Category 4 hurricane, decided she absolutely had to ruin my lasagna, my friends and I celebrated Advent in a small-ish Knishmas party held at Kaffeka. The whole thing was my idea, born of the need to experience the annual Christmas party I’ve missed (college is boo!). I planned it to be complete with opening remarks and prayers and party games; it didn’t go as perfectly as I wanted (nothing I plan ever does, so I shouldn’t have sulked about it, but I did anyway). I left the office early but got stuck in Christmas rush, I came home to an empty house in need of cleaning, and my mother was in a hospital attending to something so decidedly not her business anymore. I was supposed to cook my mother’s pasta parmigiana and boy was I ready to brag about it to my friends but between washing dishes and cleaning the kitchen and silently fuming over my mother’s inability to lay off things that aren’t ever hers to worry about, I had too little time to get to really cooking anything. Instead I ended up buying a chocolate cake, decorated with Welp (my favourite word after Fuck).

I was ready to cry in frustration — I was an hour late to the party I planned, I missed The Music Snob’s listening party (theme: guilty pleasures) much to my dismay, and although I bought prizes and cake and soda and printed out a programme, I didn’t bring food which was (is) arguably the most important part of any party — but my friends, magnificent creatures that they are, didn’t even mind. (Okay, they did mind, but they were very gracious about it. Which is to say they made it a point to remind me of the huge blunder of not bringing a supposedly-delicious meal to the party.)

We had chicken for dinner, a far cry from the saucy-sounding menu I would’ve made, but amidst the sound of their voices and the way they picked up after me messing up, I couldn’t care less. The chicken was delicious.

(And as if they hadn’t made me happy enough already, one of them decided to bring adobo too, like the potluck of days past!)

(I still cried that night, to nobody’s surprise but mine.)


In the wake of grief and mourning, one friend laughs a little too loudly and the other suddenly falls a little too quiet. It pains me to watch them keeping up with life and fumbling in the smallest of ways when they look to a corner and find that the moment misses a pounce, or a nuzzle, or a tail. The least I could be is there, here, wherever it counts.


You’d think with the new year I’d have fared better in the art of figuring out what a normal day for me entails but alas, even with a fresh start (it’s as fresh as it’s ever gonna get) I still find it impossible to properly schedule my days. I suppose it’s because I’ve grown accustomed to spontaneity and I may have become too attached to the practice of split-second decision making, and now I pay the unreasonably annoying price: I find myself without a life plan.

(Goes without saying that of course I never had a life plan in the first place; if I had I wouldn’t have landed myself in so messy a predicament as figuring out which way is forward and which way leads to further recession of character. It’s actually more of an about damn time kind of realisation and I know it’s something I’ve known all along but adamantly buried in the back of my mind for… err… safekeeping.)

My “tenacity” notwithstanding, I managed to scoop up a little bit of motivation to try and pull my shit together. So far it hasn’t been the most productive, and that’s a really great way to start a new year, I know, but I’ve worked enough to be able to at least offer myself a bit of congratulatory brandy as recompense for the many months I have neglected my health in order to brood over life’s many-splendoured bullshit. It’s a small mercy, a poor consolation, since I still have a very long way to go and am faced with a series of difficult, life-changing decisions the repercussions of which I will have to live with for the rest of my time on Earth: stay or leave, go back or leave, commit or leave… All of these choices require the abandonment of safety and comfort and familiarity. I am not a bountiful person; I do not have a lot of friends and property, and as such am prone to investing way too much time, effort, and emotion in the people and things I hold close. I’m giving myself a month to make up my mind about what I’m about to do, although I admit I’ve given myself too much time to think about it already that I’m starting to feel the rather crippling sense of worthlessness I’ve come to associate with any thoughts relating to myself.

It’s wearying to keep fighting this fight, honestly, since I’ve been going at it alone for so many years now (it’s really not something anyone else can help me with). If it weren’t for the friends who hold me up (knowingly or otherwise) I wouldn’t have lasted very long. The urge to commit suicide has always been an ebb-and-flow kind of feeling for me, but opening up to them and getting over how stupid and emotional I sound like when I tell them these things has made me feel a bit better about the world as a whole. In a way, despite being one of the least-aware characters of Season 1, Rachel was right: I’ll be fine, I’ve got magic beans.

God. Fucking. Damn. It.

This must all be a dream. I would demand it of the deities humans worship. I would sell everything of mine worth taking for the chance to undo all the horrors this year has brought. If it is true that this universe is just a great simulation, well, fuck you, Player.

I was never a good writer to begin with, thoughts scattering across paper this way and that, but lately I’ve been feeling a strange hum of rage in the back of my mind. I’ve been suppressing it because I was never smartest when emotionally overwhelmed, but if this keeps up I’m afraid it’ll blow its lid off. And when it does, how would I write it all down?

Where does one begin writing all the anger?

n. something remembered from the past; things learned and kept in the mind

  • he read me fairy tales, and then fell asleep as the prince carried the princess away;
  • she once led me by the hand to a store where she bought me clothes and a tiny white back pack littered with blue and red stars;
  • my teacher always complained about an issue with cleanliness and orderliness which I do not believe I ever outgrew;
  • she gave me dolls instead of the fathers I had wished for every Christmas until I learned the truth about Santa;
  • she sang me songs and brushed my hair and told me all about The Carpenters and ABBA and Air Supply;
  • “I think I have a crush on you because you gave me your last wafer”;
  • every year during Commencement she would give me a packet full of coins and bright red santan flowers, kiss me on the temple, say good job, baby, good job;
  • he read me poetry, multitudes of verses old and eerie to my ears and eyes now; Whitman, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Henley, Poe, Browning, Frost, Kipling, Hunt, Barrett-Browning, Dickinson, Gray, Tennyson, Thomas… The list goes on and on and on and on and on nights when I find it hard to sleep I fall back into the comforts of his deep voice calling out my name, speaking the first lines of a poem carved so deep into my skull it aches to this very day: The curfew tolls the knell of parting day…;
  • I was happy once.

n. waste or debris of any kind

A choice must be made; a risk taken; a chance foregone; a life derailed.


I have failed, yet again, to meet the required grade for my course. After nearly a year of fighting and wading through the muck of accountancy I have once more proven to myself that it is not for me, and that I can never learn to live with it. At its core, I honestly believe it is loathing for accountancy. Or so I tell myself for comfort. I have no idea what I’m doing, I have no idea what I want to do, I have no idea what to do now. I suppose I will have to work, to get away. Short of suicide, I believe getting out of Naga is the next best thing I can do to save me from myself.

I am afraid. Strangely enough, I have never been more calm.


I have never been lonelier either.

After the rain, roads are rivers and windshields are universes in miniature.

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lonely nights; solitary walks; cups of coffee; a false sense of security; voices coming and going and lingering; a sudden quiet; if you’re still breathing you’re the lucky ones; a sudden disquiet; wet feet; most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs; dry shoes; an undecided rain cloud; should I stay or should I go?; clumsy is the heart that knows not where it belongs; failure is almost always the default option; doubtful truths, truthful doubts; I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory; choices that should have been made; long gone were the days when I’d walk home under heavy rainfall and feel a kind of peace; lately rains fall heavy on the heart; all is quiet down by the old sugar mill.

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strangers in mirrors; I don’t look in mirrors anyway; a failed science experiment; chances are all we hope to be; if I drink I cough, if I don’t drink I don’t cough; it’s not right for you; I drink anyway; you hate your pulse because it thinks you’re still alive; dear friend, what would I do without you; unlikely plot twist: I survive October; I have forgotten what it means; perhaps I could write; perhaps I could keep singing; Definition of a metaphor: the collapse of what separates us; perhaps I make it out alive; perhaps I could leave it all to chance; I am lonely, I am sad, I am alone, I am lonely, I am lonely, I am lonely, I am alone and lonely; it takes two to fall; long walks home; cups of coffee; glasses of brandy; hours and hours of unwritten melodies; a fragrant memory; please don’t take my sunshine away…