First of all, I’m slightly mortified that after years of radio silence on my blog, this is the first thing I’m compelled to write about. But here we are. I’m a full-blown pophead, and the VMAs (or, as I like to call it, The Miley Cyrus Show) have stirred up such a frenzy among traditionalists and hypocrites that I feel morally obligated to unleash my thoughts. Yes, I’m probably talking about you. And yes, we both have better things to do, but whatever. Cheap shots deserve cheap shots.

For the record, I’m not a fan of Miley Cyrus. Well, maybe I am now, but for most of her career, I couldn’t have cared less if you held a gun to my head. If you missed Miley’s VMA performance, do yourself a favor and Google it. If you can’t be bothered, let me break it down for you: the former Disney darling wore practically nothing, dry-humped giant teddy bears, touched herself in ways that would make a sailor blush, gyrated against Robin Thicke’s crotch, and spanked plenty of behinds—all while proudly showcasing her freakishly long tongue. Oh, and she may have inadvertently popularized the term “twerk,” so, props to her for that.

The performance predictably ignited a firestorm of reactions—mostly criticisms about how lewd and inappropriate Miley was. It’s so easy to clutch your pearls, roll your rosary beads, and judge this slutfest from your perch of moral superiority. But before you throw stones, I suggest you check your own glass house first. I’m not here to give Miley unwarranted credit for her actions, but I do welcome the dialogue they’ve sparked.

At first glance, this whole kerfuffle seems shocking because, hey, Miley is a former child star who now appears to have a grasp on her own sexuality. “Aaaack! Hannah Montana is popping her pussy on MTV!” This is the kind of nonsense that makes some people lose their minds. But when you dissect this free-for-all, it’s clear there’s more to it than people’s deluded notions of how one is supposed to grow up. This is just another case of society’s unfair double standards. A woman acting like a man? Unacceptable—she gets the scarlet letter. Miley’s suggestive antics could easily have been pulled off by a male artist, and no one would bat an eye. Seriously, think about it: if a guy did this, it wouldn’t even make the news. If anything about that performance is disturbing, it’s probably the lyrics to Robin Thicke’s rapey hit “Blurred Lines,” which subtly glorifies an insistent “yes” to a woman’s indifferent “no.” But that’s not what people are talking about. Why is it so hard for a woman to express her sexual autonomy? Regardless of whether it’s crass or classy, sexuality comes in many forms, and we don’t get to dictate who can express theirs. Why do most male artists get a free pass while Miley gets crucified?

Let’s talk about the role model argument—a total exercise in futility. The world is chock-full of bad role models. You can’t scrub the world clean of its ugliness to shield the innocent from reality. Ultimately, it’s up to parents to manage how their children process the world. Miley Cyrus didn’t invent promiscuity; sex and sexuality have been around since the dawn of time, believe it or not. Parents can’t control every external influence on their kids—shocking, right? Unless you want your child living a life of isolation, they will encounter examples, images, and situations that clash with the values you want to instill. If your kids grow up to be less than you hoped, you don’t get to shove the blame onto Miley Cyrus—simple as that.

You’re probably sensing the strength of my feelings on this topic. I guess my long-standing adoration for Christina Aguilera might have something to do with it. Christina, who actually lives her message, strutted onto the scene over a decade ago in ass-less chaps, shaking her booty to “Dirrty,” and unapologetically shoving her raw sexuality into the consciousness of millions. The backlash to her shedding her innocent image was utterly predictable: stone-throwing and outrage. I’ve always admired women who take charge and refuse to buckle under the pressure of those who try to shove them into a tiny box of acceptable behavior. Why must a woman hide her sexuality behind closed doors while a man can flaunt it without repercussions?

Let’s dig deeper into this notion of sexual expression, shall we? In a country that claims to champion freedom and equality, it’s baffling how a woman’s autonomy over her body can still be seen as something scandalous. We have centuries of societal conditioning that dictate what a “proper” woman should look like, act like, and express. Men, on the other hand, can swagger through life like they own the damn place, and we’re expected to applaud. This disparity is not just a minor inconvenience; it’s a glaring reflection of a deeply embedded double standard that needs to be dismantled.

Our society wouldn’t be where it is today without fearless radicals who’ve dared to challenge the status quo and question what’s deemed “proper.” There should be no shame in sex, period. No one should ever have to concede to shame, let alone apologize for expressing their sexuality. Just because someone has different preferences than you doesn’t make them any less worthy. A woman’s role in society is not set in stone. Where’s the real freedom when society starts policing values based on outdated standards? What about respecting a woman’s right to act as she sees fit? You can’t stifle someone’s innate individuality just because it makes you uncomfortable. If you can’t handle it, go sulk in your corner and be offended. You champion your values best by living them, not by attacking those who don’t align with yours. Trust me, your disgust could be better directed elsewhere. Live and let live.

If you’re so wrapped up in your own moral outrage, you’re missing the point entirely. The real issue isn’t Miley’s performance; it’s what it reveals about our collective discomfort with women owning their sexuality. So while you clutch your pearls and lament the decline of decency, take a moment to consider this: maybe it’s time to redefine what “decency” really means. In a world where women are still fighting for the right to express themselves freely, perhaps we should celebrate their boldness instead of shaming them into silence. After all, progress is born from discomfort, and if Miley’s performance made you squirm, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. After all, Miley can’t stop, won’t stop, etc. So really, it’s your loss, not hers.

I hosted a Filipino gathering the other day, and let me tell you, my cooking skills were definitely put to the test. Growing up in a family of talented cooks, I spent much of my childhood navigating the delightful chaos of the kitchen. Picture Laura Esquivel’s “Like Water for Chocolate,” but with a more chaotic Filipino twist and a lot less magic. I’ve learned a lot from my mom, dad, aunts, and uncles—each of whom has a flair for cooking that far surpasses my own.

In fact, all five of us siblings could probably run a small restaurant if we weren’t busy with our actual lives. So, I suppose you could say I’ve been preparing for this ambitious culinary marathon my whole life. I decided to go big and made a feast that would make any Pinoy food lover’s heart flutter: Oxtail Kare-Kare, Kaldereta, Dinuguan, Pancit Palabok, Chili Garlic Prawns, Chicken Pork Adobo sa Gata, Beef Pares, Sisig, Mixed Vegetables, and Cassava Cake for dessert. Yes, it was an epic spread, and yes, I might have bitten off more than I could chew.

It took me eight hours to pull it all together, including prep time. I’ve made each of these dishes before, but never all at once. Ed did help out a bit, but he had to work and, let’s be honest, his cooking enthusiasm is about as high as my tolerance for a Star Cinema wig. So, I was mostly flying solo, trying not to set anything on fire or create a culinary disaster worthy of a reality show.

Not to brag—okay, maybe just a little—but the feedback was surprisingly positive. People loved the food, and a few even suggested I should consider cooking on the side. Because, of course, who wouldn’t want to turn a beloved hobby into a second job? But honestly, I enjoy cooking precisely because it’s something I choose to do, not because I feel like I have to for extra cash.

By the end of the day, I was running on fumes after a sleepless night. I finally collapsed into bed at 2:30 a.m., feeling utterly exhausted yet oddly triumphant. I may not be ready to open a restaurant anytime soon, but I can confidently say I’ve added a few memorable dishes to my repertoire—and hopefully a few more expertise to my life

 

I find myself awake at this late hour, feeling a familiar wave of exhaustion wash over me. It’s one of those nights when sleep eludes me, and I can’t help but overthink everything, like a Catholic wrestling with guilt.

It was the evening of August 2nd, the night before my birthday. I got into my car, preparing for what felt like an impending downpour—a summer storm that seemed more dramatic than usual. As I turned on my iPod and shuffled through my playlist, Macy Gray’s “I’m in Between” began to play. It brought back memories of As Told by Ginger, a show I loved despite my less-than-kind behavior in school. It’s funny how we can grow from our past, isn’t it? Anyway, it was the perfect way to kick off my commute.

I arrived at work for my night shift, fully prepared for a miserable time. To my surprise, I didn’t mind spending the first few hours of my birthday working. I even had the chance to revive a patient who had flatlined—a moment that was both intense and exhausting. Many people underestimate how physically demanding chest compressions can be, especially for someone like me who isn’t in the best shape. Unfortunately, despite my efforts, the patient didn’t survive. So, while I celebrated another year of life, I was also reminded of the fragility of it.

After my shift ended, I drove home to find my boyfriend, Ed, in a cheerful mood, eager to make my birthday special. I had hoped to spend the day relaxing together, but he had to work. Thankfully, his job allowed for some flexibility, so I decided to tag along. I turned the backseat of our SUV into a cozy spot with pillows and a blanket, and it wasn’t long before sleep overtook me. I slept soundly, aside from a few playful nudges from our baby, Bogart, who seemed to think my face was a toy. I didn’t mind, though; when I finally woke up, seven hours had passed, and we were home.

Starving, I did a quick search for good Chinese restaurants on Zagat and found “Grace Garden,” a little hole-in-the-wall in the suburbs of Baltimore. The place had zero ambiance, desperately needed a makeover, and the servers were about as warm as a block of ice. It was in a sketchy area, but who doesn’t love a culinary adventure with a side of danger? Zagat claimed they served authentic Sichuan and Cantonese cuisine, which was all I needed to hear. They even had a separate menu for American tastes, which we promptly ignored.

We dove into the traditional menu, and let me tell you, it was a feast! My favorites were the Braised Pork Belly with Mui Choy, Eggplant in Garlic Sauce, and Spicy Deep-Fried Flounder. Pure bliss! Each bite was a reminder of why we love exploring new foods. We left the restaurant full and content, with plenty of leftovers to enjoy later.

Back home, I settled in with The Exorcist on Netflix, ready for some classic horror. However, my fatigue got the better of me, and I couldn’t finish it. I dozed off sometime after Regan twisted her head around and started using a crucifix rather creatively. Sweet dreams, alright.

When I finally woke up, I felt the weight of turning 26. It was a sobering realization, bringing me closer to 30 than 20. But I’m choosing to see this birthday as an opportunity for reflection and growth. Here’s to another year of navigating life, armed with a weaker liver, poorer eyesight, and the lessons I refuse to learn. Cheers!

For those who followed the enigmatic and undeniably talented Amy Winehouse, her recent passing was not merely a surprise; it was a somber culmination of a tragic narrative that had been unfolding in the public eye for years. At the height of her meteoric rise, many were already postulating that her days might be numbered, all while the media gleefully chronicled her struggles with addiction and self-destruction. Yet, as heart-wrenching as her departure is, the news doesn’t lose its punch simply because it was anticipated.

I have always held a profound admiration for Amy Winehouse. Though I suspect she was never quite able to receive the immense love the world had to offer her, I sincerely hope that, at least in fleeting moments, she felt the warmth of that affection. But therein lies the cruelty of death—so many unanswered questions linger, so many regrets haunt us, and in the end, everything feels irrevocably too late. I find myself grappling with the profound impact of her death on my psyche. Ours was nothing more than a parasocial relationship—she was the artist, and I was merely a devoted fan. Yet, something about her passing resonates deeply within me, like a haunting melody that refuses to fade.

Only those who genuinely knew her can fully grasp the complexities of her dependence on drugs. It’s a painful realization that there’s nothing anyone can do about it now. I suppose I related to that facet of her life on a visceral level. It felt as though we shared demons, our struggles intertwining in a silent bond. I, too, wandered through a dark period marked by habitual drinking and heavy drug use. I fought my own battles with addiction. Yet, unlike Amy, I was fortunate enough to escape that abyss before it consumed me entirely, and for that, I owe a debt of gratitude to the loved ones who stood by me. Still, my demons occasionally come knocking, testing my resolve. There are moments when I falter, and others when I triumph. I am human, after all, and that duality is both my burden and my strength.

I won’t pretend to have known Amy on a personal level—far from it. However, like any public figure, she revealed certain aspects of herself through her music and public discourse. The truths she was willing to share resonated with me deeply; they expressed layers of emotion that many of us grapple with in silence. Her genius as an artist is truly indisputable. She didn’t always dwell on life’s sorrows and despair. In fact, if we’re being honest (and I say this somewhat tongue-in-cheek), one might assume that, based solely on the melancholic undertones of her music, Adele would be the one drowning in substance abuse. Yet, Amy’s discography was vibrant and multifaceted—joyful, funny, witty, sweet, and astoundingly clever. Her music often contradicted the troubled persona that the media so eagerly amplified. While substance abuse undoubtedly played a role in her erratic behavior, I firmly believe that her legacy will be cherished, if not revered, for the brilliance of her curtailed body of work. Her sophomore album, ‘Back to Black,’ remains one of my all-time favorites, a testament to her unparalleled artistry. Those who predicted her demise may have believed it was overdue, but as a musician and a cultural icon, she was undoubtedly taken from us far too soon.

Amy’s music has always spoken to me in a profound way. I admired her not just as an artist but as a complex human being. It genuinely breaks my heart to witness those who seem to revel in schadenfreude over her tragic ending. It’s deeply unsettling to encounter individuals who would proudly assert that Amy deserved her fate. Understanding her—or any addict, for that matter—is no simple endeavor, especially when one is ignorant of the devastating grip of addiction and mental illness. It requires considerable effort to comprehend the mind of the troubled. No one has the right to reduce Amy to the caricature we see splashed across tabloids and social media. She was a beautifully layered individual, yet she was portrayed so unfairly. We often forget that every person is an embodiment of experiences, truths, and pain.

News outlets report that Amy’s body is to undergo autopsy today. Yet, for me, the specifics of her cause of death have become irrelevant. It was widely presumed that, given her trajectory, her death was inevitable—it was merely a matter of time. It pains me to admit that we all sat back and watched it unfold, powerless to intervene. Perhaps the reason her death resonates so deeply with me is that it could have easily been my own. That’s a sobering reality. I was on a similar path, with a trajectory that mirrored hers—except she is gone, and I remain here, aimlessly navigating the complexities of life. There’s a profound lesson to be learned in this tragedy. Life presents us with an endless array of challenges, hurdles to overcome, and heartbreaks to endure. As intricate as life is, we each have our methods of coping. If one finds themselves ensnared in darkness, life can be ruthlessly unforgiving, even for those who appear to possess the trappings of a “perfect” life—talent, fame, wealth, love, and adoration. Our demons do not discriminate, and the tragedy of Amy Winehouse illustrates this harsh truth. There’s an ugliness to existence that we often choose to ignore. I believe a piece of Amy resides within all of us. Her vulnerabilities may have ultimately claimed her, yet she was beautiful, nonetheless. It’s heartbreaking to think she’ll never truly comprehend the depth of love people had for her. It’s even sadder that, despite everything she achieved, she felt an emptiness that eluded her grasp. The world can be so cruel.

While I will miss her terribly, paradoxically, there’s a sliver of solace in her death: at last, her battle is over. At least her pain has ceased. Finally, she can find peace. And perhaps, in that peace, a flicker of her spirit lives on, urging us to confront our own demons with compassion and understanding. In remembering Amy, we are reminded not only of her artistry but of our shared humanity—a call to embrace our strengths and vulnerabilities, and to extend a hand to those who find themselves in the shadows.

In light of my last post, let’s delve into the rather puzzling name of our national football team: the Philippine “Azkals.” Because, honestly, what on earth?

I first encountered the Philippine Azkals on Facebook, amidst a sea of fervent admirers—mostly women—enthusiastically declaring their infatuation with the team’s dashing players. This roster is a curious blend of Filipinos and foreign imports, with the latter often stumbling through attempts at speaking Filipino. Unsurprisingly, it’s these foreign players who bask in the limelight. Thanks to the likes of Phil Younghusband, the Azkals have become a household name, albeit with a rather troubling undercurrent: a societal preference for mestizo or Eurocentric features over our own rich heritage. Wake me up when the Philippines stops putting these colonizing pale figures on a pedestal and when the media finally retires its obsession with skin-whitening products. But I digress.

The origin of our football team’s name is equally intriguing. Through research (I was bored, can you tell?) I found it began in an online sports forum, where the name “Calle Azul” (Streets of Blue) was suggested, referencing the color of their uniforms. It morphed into “Azul Calle,” then earned the nickname “AzCal,” before finally settling on “Azkals.” Here’s where it gets even more layered. “Askal” is a blend of “aso” (dog) and “kalye” (street), and if you’re feeling cheeky, you might call it “asong kalye,” which translates to “street dog.” These are the unfortunate byproducts of irresponsible pet ownership and unsustainable breeding practices—stray animals that roam the streets, often neglected and afflicted with a host of diseases, including skin infections, ticks, worms, and, yes, rabies. While they desperately need rescuing, most Filipinos seem apathetic. Askals are frequently regarded as nuisances, known for their propensity to chase and attack, whether provoked or not.

So here’s the kicker: why would we willingly associate our nation with a term that conjures images of rabid street dogs? Do we lack self-respect? Have the Jejemons truly triumphed? And why do I even care when I don’t follow football? Am I unwittingly becoming a Jejemon myself? These, my friends, are the pressing questions we must confront.

Thanks to TFC and the wonderfully deranged realm of the internet, I’ve found myself mildly obsessing over the tragic saga of Amanda Coling—a disgraced Filipina, if there ever was one—better known as the woman who allegedly endured a horrific ordeal involving four Philippine Azkals players. I tried to brush this issue aside, thinking it would fizzle out like yesterday’s news, but recent developments have me captivated, oscillating between morbid curiosity and unbridled hysteria. So here I am, surrendering to the chaos. When it comes to distractions, I’ll take whatever I can get, even if it’s a hot mess.

This sordid tale began on June 2, 2011—mark the date, folks—when Simon Greatwich, Jason Sabio, Neil Etheridge, and Anton del Rosario, four illustrious Azkals players, reportedly ushered Amanda Coling into the sanctity of Dan Palami’s house, their team manager. What transpired behind those closed doors remains tantalizingly shrouded in mystery. With reputations hanging by a thread, those embroiled in this spectacle have been frustratingly stingy about the juicy details the public is ravenously craving. Regardless of the truth, the allegations against these players are nothing short of severe. It’s claimed they inflicted serious sexual violence on Coling and even filmed the entire thing. Three of the four have vehemently denied these accusations, expressing their outrage over the malicious rumors—especially when they should be channeling their energy into their upcoming World Cup qualifying match against Kuwait. Meanwhile, Coling has stepped into the spotlight to articulate her anguish but has neither confirmed nor denied the public speculation that she was raped.

Before this sordid affair thrust her into the limelight, Amanda was making a living as a model, gracing the pages of FHM and endorsing a certain brand of condoms. You could say she was in the business of objectifying women, which adds an ironic twist to her current predicament. Coling claims she knew Simon Greatwich and Neil Etheridge even before the Azkals became synonymous with Filipino football fervor. As for Jason Sabio and Anton del Rosario? She hadn’t a clue who they were until recently. The question of who instigated the alleged sexual escapade and whether Amanda consented remains murky at best. Yet she’s now stepping forward to declare she’s been wronged. How exactly? Well, she hasn’t quite elaborated, leaving us to connect the dots with our own imaginations.

Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t Amanda who first fanned the flames of this scandal. That dubious honor belongs to Paul Weiler, a German national who claims to be a former consultant for the Philippine Football Federation. A cursory Google search raises eyebrows regarding his credibility; internet forums dating back to 2006 have labeled him a fraud, questioning his motives. Weiler asserts that he got wind of this situation from the Azkals’ coach, Michael Weiss, and Neil Etheridge himself. Whether he’s spinning a yarn or seeking vengeance for reasons unknown remains to be seen, but the suspicious timing and questionable motives certainly cast a long shadow over his claims.

In her latest TV interview, Coling projected an oddly anti-victim image. She appeared confident, yet her demeanor was unsettlingly apathetic, almost as if she couldn’t care less. When pressed on what transpired that fateful night, she deftly dodged those questions, citing her lawyer’s advice to keep quiet until they could construct a case. The only time she displayed any semblance of emotion was when discussing how this entire mess has affected her family. It’s as if she’s trying too hard to embody the archetype of a strong, unaffected woman. Now that she and her lawyer have finally released an official statement, she’s opted against pursuing any legal action for the time being. Which begs the question: what the hell is really going on here?

The Filipino masses have been all too eager to castigate Coling, showering her with vitriol while her alleged assailants seem to receive a disproportionate amount of leniency. Opinionated bigots hurl insults at her, insinuating she should be grateful for having had sex with the country’s hottest athletes—as if being raped by these so-called “foreign imports” is some twisted honor. A quick scroll through social media reveals a deluge of victim-blaming from faceless trolls, claiming she must have asked for it simply because she doesn’t fit the mold of your typical pearl-clutching Filipina. Coling asserts she’s avoided press inquiries hounding her for an “exclusive” interview to protect her and her family’s privacy. Yet now that she’s finally chosen to speak, she’s branded as attention-seeking and fame-hungry. Clearly, in the court of public opinion, Coling has already been found guilty.

Whatever happened to the principle of not jumping to conclusions? Why can’t we extend Amanda the same benefit of the doubt that so many conveniently granted the four Azkals players? We weren’t there that night; we have no clue what really unfolded. Must we immediately resort to slinging stones based on poorly conceived suspicions? It seems the conservative upbringing of Filipinos has failed us yet again. Some sources suggest she may have initially consented to “party” with the Azkals and even engaged in consensual sex at first, but later resisted. Even if she did provoke the situation, that doesn’t justify rape—nothing does. A “no” is always a “no.” But in this patriarchal society, it’s so much easier to crucify Coling. I mean, she looks and acts like a “slut,” so she must have deserved it, right?

Amanda Coling seems like a relatively savvy woman, and she likely understands the treacherous waters she’s navigating. She claims she attempted to keep this whole debacle under wraps, and I have no reason to doubt her. After all, it was the media that pieced together the puzzle and named her as the woman allegedly embroiled in this rape incident. Once the proverbial beehive was rocked, she felt compelled to speak out, which is completely understandable. She lost her job and prior engagements—her only source of income—and admits it’s been devastating. It’s disheartening to see her grasping for straws. One might think it’s odd that she seems more concerned about her lost gigs than her dignity being dragged through the mud. It doesn’t even appear she’s fishing for sympathy, which is perplexing. It seems more like she just wants her income back, as if she knows fighting this battle is futile. But with her opportunities dwindling and her name sullied, she is indeed a victim here—whether or not she was raped.

Coling strikes me as someone who has given up the fight. Even if she decides to continue on, which I highly doubt she will, I fear she may never put together a solid case against her alleged perpetrators. I don’t need a law degree to realize how weak her legal claim is without any sort of evidence. It’s practically her word against the Azkals players’. And let’s be real: in this misogynistic country, who would believe a rape victim who models for condoms against four national athletes who consistently bring pride to our nation? It’s a disheartening reality that reflects deep-seated societal biases.

It’s a cruel world, and in the wake of this sordid affair, perhaps the most tragic irony is that, in our rush to judge, we’ve completely forgotten the human element of this story. As we dissect the details and engage in our armchair analysis, let us not lose sight of the fact that behind the headlines is a woman grappling with the fallout of a nightmare. In the end, we must ask ourselves: how far are we willing to go in our quest for truth, and at what cost to the very people involved? Perhaps, out of sheer kindness, we could grant Amanda what she’s been asking for—a little peace. In a situation where justice feels elusive, is it too much to ask for a dash of compassion? Leave her alone. After all, Amanda Coling is done for; I know it, you know it, and deep down, she knows it too.

The moment the internet caught wind of Google+, Google’s shiny new social networking site, I have to admit I was mildly excited with anticipation. It boldly marketed itself as the “Facebook Killer.” Now that it’s finally here, let me share my thoughts.

First of all, Google+ will not kill Facebook. Not now, and maybe not ever. But hey, it took Facebook a few years to explode onto the mainstream scene. When Facebook blew up, it was unprecedented—impossible to ignore. Everyone and their mother jumped on that bandwagon, including your aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas. However, Google+ has the potential to make a splash, but only if it plays its cards right. And so far? I’m not convinced it’s on the right track. For starters, the rollout has been a letdown. Those beta invites have been as elusive as a decent Wi-Fi signal in a coffee shop, and frankly, I don’t think this exclusivity is helping them, like it did for Facebook back in its Harvard days. If you want people to join the damn network, let them join!

Now let’s dive into the Circles. Circles are Google’s clever way of letting users filter what they share. You can group your various friends into different “circles” and share exclusively with them. It’s like having a neat little compartment for all the different facets of your life—so you can keep your boss, your best friend, and your ex from mingling. “Put your boss in a circle all by himself—just like real life!” Your friends can’t see what circle you put them in, dodging any potential animosity. Simple yet brilliant! Sure, you could argue that Facebook offers similar privacy controls, but who has time to wrestle with those complicated settings? Certainly not your aunts, uncles, and grandmas. Google has come up with a straightforward solution for code-switching. Bravo!

One of the main reasons people love Facebook is its photo tagging feature. Admittedly, I despise it and don’t use it, but the majority of Facebook users seem to thrive on it. However, Google+ appears to prioritize user privacy more than Facebook does. Don’t you just loathe those annoying spam mentions on Twitter? Or waking up to find that a friend added you to a group you’d never join in a million years? Google+ promises to keep that nonsense at bay. The un-tag feature on Facebook is an exercise in futility—there’s nothing quite as infuriating as being tagged in a candid shot of you mid-sneeze or, worse, mid-yawn. And you find out a day or two later, only to un-tag yourself from the humiliation after who-knows-how-many people have seen it. With Google+, your friends will need to ask your permission before tagging you in that photo of you passed out in your own vomit from last Saturday night. Crisis averted!

I prefer the aesthetic of Google+ over Facebook’s cluttered layout. Sure, that’s subjective, but I think Google+ showcases user photos in a sleeker manner. The grid format is much tidier and more straightforward than Facebook’s mess. And honestly, those recent changes to Facebook’s layout? So annoying! Who asked for another sidebar on the homepage? Utterly pointless.

Let’s be real: Google is an unstoppable force. It has cemented itself as a major player on the internet. Google makes it easy to integrate all the popular services into one convenient package. My YouTube, Gmail, Analytics, and Google+ accounts are all under one login—it’s a dream for a geek like me. I get that not everyone has multiple accounts to juggle, but the potential Google+ offers is impressive. Decluttering my online life sounds damn appealing!

But here’s the kicker: Google+ will only thrive if it conquers its biggest challenge—actually building a network. I may be sold, but getting the rest of the world on board is going to be a tough sell, especially since everyone and their mother is already entrenched in Facebook. It took a while to convince people to jump on the Facebook train; coaxing them over to Google+ won’t be a walk in the park. Users will have to relearn the ropes of Google+, just like they did with Facebook, and let’s face it—people hate change. Learning a whole new vocabulary doesn’t happen overnight, and “+1” just doesn’t have the same catchy ring as Facebook’s “like.” Plus, what does “plus one” even mean? Plus one what?

And while I’m excited about the Circles feature, it might not resonate with everyone—especially older folks. A lot of them don’t care who sees what they share, as long as they can share. Many users keep Facebook just to snoop or wish people a happy birthday, without ever posting updates themselves. So, let’s be real—there’s not much incentive for people to ditch Facebook for Google+.

The reality is that Google+ doesn’t really offer anything new. Something better? Sure. But new? Not so much. Google+ is essentially a more functional version of Facebook. Will it outshine Facebook? I hope so, but honestly, I’m skeptical. Google+ might have its advantages, but until the general public makes the leap, it remains a desolate wasteland. After all, a social network needs to be social, first and foremost.

I don’t know about you, but I distinctly remember a time—not too long ago—when I thought people had a slight aversion to internet addicts. I, too, shared that sentiment of disdain. I vividly recall resisting the itch to log on, fueled by a proud teenage rebellion that pushed me to the fringes rather than into the mainstream. My earliest blog entries from 2003 are snapshots of my reluctance to leap into the cold, digital waters. There was just something about spending my days tethered to a computer screen instead of actually “living” in the real world that made me uneasy. I didn’t want to be labeled a geek—not that I think there’s anything wrong with it today. Honestly, in this age, everyone’s a geek in one way or another.

Fast forward to the present, and all my noble intentions have crumbled into dust. I’ve had accounts on LiveJournal, Friendster, Hipstir, MySpace, Multiply, WordPress, Facebook, Twitter—you name it, I’ve dabbled in it at some point, and some I still do. I’m fairly certain I’ve left a few out of that dizzying list. And while we’re at it, let’s not even begin to count my multitude of email accounts and instant messengers.

It’s official: I’ve become an internet addict, and there’s no turning back.

Among all the social media platforms I use to showcase my thoughts and whims, LiveJournal remains my absolute favorite. Bar none. There was something about LiveJournal that had a pulse—a unique energy that allowed strangers to forge intimate connections and share confidences like it was a communal therapy session. Back in the early aughts, when the LiveJournal user base was small enough that you could encounter most users at some point, it created a sense of community that feels almost mythical today. It was on LiveJournal that the incredible Meryn Cadell “friended” me, and let me tell you, that shot me straight to euphoria! I have a treasure trove of wonderful memories from my time on LJ. I used to say I had a love-hate relationship with it, but now, in retrospect, all I feel is love and appreciation for what I can only describe as the glory days of blogging. Too bad, it’s dead now.

Next to LiveJournal, I suppose Facebook comes in a close second as my favorite. I created my Facebook account back in late 2007 with my old email, stereotypephobic (cringe-worthy, I know). But it wasn’t until January 2009 that I, like the rest of the world, got hopelessly hooked. Yet, much like every other social networking site I’ve felt compelled to join, Facebook isn’t without its fair share of flaws. As brilliantly explored in “The Social Network,” the early days of a social platform are often more about prestige and cachet than genuine connection. It’s a bit like lining up to get into the hottest club; there has to be enough allure and just the right amount of hype to make people outside want to join in.

What once turned me and much of the world off from MySpace and Friendster has now reared its ugly head on—gasp!—Facebook. Recently, my Facebook activity consists mostly of blocking online shops, useless apps, and reporting spam, rather than actually engaging with users. I don’t know about you, but I like my News Feed neat and functional. It drives me up the wall to see endless “fashionista” shops cluttering my feed with “branded” and “pre-loved” (let’s be real, “pre-loved” might as well mean “full of germs”) clothes and trinkets. Plus, I’m pretty sure none of these online businesses pay taxes, which is a massive injustice to legitimate shops trying to make a living. But then again, maybe I just need to tidy up my friends list. To date, I’ve blocked a staggering number of people, shops, and apps—Facebook doesn’t keep count, but if I had to guess, it’s easily over 2,000. Yet, deep down, I know this is a losing battle.

I do take some comfort in the fact that Facebook insists users write their names with the first letter capitalized, as proper names should be. But somehow, the determined ones have figured out how to circumvent that little rule. So now I have friends with questionably chosen characters messing up their names. Why would anyone want to do that? It’s baffling!

I’m so over Facebook.

When Friendster—the now-defunct social networking site that once held sway in Southeast Asia—first emerged, the internet landscape was vastly different. Back then, having internet at home was more of a novelty than a necessity. In the Philippines, where connection speeds were akin to molasses and not every household had internet access, Friendster was genuinely cool. Those who could afford home internet were the pioneers of social networking. But it didn’t take long for the masses to catch on, and soon, Friendster morphed into a playground for users who typed LiKe DiS. What started as a haven for a select few gradually transformed into a chaotic jungle of trends and fads that made me question my past judgments.

Now, as I sit here contemplating these digital relics, I realize this post was originally meant to segue into what I really wanted to discuss: Google+ (Google Plus). Obviously, it took on a life of its own. I guess I’ll tackle that later. For now, I need some sleep. After all, navigating this digital landscape takes its toll, and even internet addicts need to recharge.

Before I met Ed, I could never have imagined becoming the hopeless romantic I am today. But then again, I had never been in a serious relationship before him, and I was the poster child for angst growing up. I always figured I’d turn into a stone-hearted cynic—someone who thrives on argument just to feel smarter than everyone else. And while I do know a lot of things, I’ve come to terms with the fact that there’s an even longer list of things I couldn’t care less about pretending to know.

The last couple of weeks have been quite the eye-opener for both Ed and me, to say the least. I wish I could spill more details, but I’m savvy enough to realize that the internet has a knack for turning personal stories into a soap opera. So, for the sake of obscurity, I apologize.

Over the past seven years, I’ve found myself practicing love like it’s a religion. I hope the people around me can vouch for how this little truth manifests in my everyday aura. Sometimes, I have to step back and take a panoramic view of myself because love has consumed me so completely. I guess I’m writing this to remind myself of a few things.

Don’t believe the folks who say relationships should be effortless—that’s simply not true. Many, myself included, think we understand the importance of working hard to keep a relationship intact. But when life throws its curveballs, running away feels like the easier option. Sure, run when you must, but do so with a heart full of contentment. Otherwise, fight for it. Fight for love until you’ve stripped yourself of pride.

Most relationships start as carefree novelties, bursting with new flames and happy-go-lucky feelings. But when love comes knocking, commit—there’s no other way. Never take the people you love for granted, no matter how cozy you feel with them.

Love shouldn’t be locked away in the cages of someone’s heart. It should be free, felt, and expressed. It should be real. It should be lived. I need constant reminders that relationships require effort and won’t flourish on their own. I also need to remember that nothing is permanent, no matter how much we want it to be. I get it; I believe it. Pulling these truths from my brain is as effortless as letting my hair grow. But living them? That’s where I sometimes trip up. The irony of unrealistic expectations is that we create far-fetched ideas in our heads, hoping they’ll magically unfold the way we want, all the while knowing they won’t. In relationships, you have to be willing to peel back layer after layer of yourself to realize that, at our core, we’re all just the same.

My relationship with Ed is the single most life-altering experience I’ve ever had, and I can honestly say I’m a better person because of it. It teaches me what to preserve in my life and what to let go. The tricky part of life lessons is that you don’t always recognize when they’re relevant. You learn them, you know them, you believe them, and then—oops—you forget them. It sounds silly, but I believe even the most enlightened among us occasionally wade through a swamp of ambivalence and hypocrisy. After all, to err is human.

To Ed, whom I know reads this silly little blog: I hope my actions speak louder than my words. I hope the happy days continue to outshine the cloudy ones. For everything else, I’ll fill you in when I get home. There’s no other way to say it—I love you, with all of me, always.

After validating our tickets, we rolled out our picnic mat and lawn chairs, plopping ourselves down right behind the VIP area at the Boardwalk stage. I thought we had scored a prime spot. I mean, we arrived a full six hours early, and for general admission tickets that set us back $80 each, we deserved a little luck. But as the crowd thickened, we found ourselves inching closer and closer to the stage—past the barricaded VIP area with its own fancy porta-potty. Apparently, non-VIPs don’t need to relieve themselves with any urgency and must brave the masses to reach the general potty zone. Can you sense the bitterness? Somehow, we ended up a mere 30 feet from the stage, and I was practically pinching myself. It was my first time seeing DMB live, and I wouldn’t even need the concert screens to see their faces. They were going to be right there, practically swimming in a sea of 25,000 fellow fans. And we didn’t even have to elbow our way in! I still don’t quite know how it happened, but it did. So, eat your heart out, Very Important People.

Around 4 p.m., G. Love and Special Sauce took the stage to the delight of many, including yours truly. His bluesy, funk-rock vibe definitely set the mood. After a night of hard labor (read: binge-watching Netflix), I had planned to catch a quick nap on the field before DMB took the stage to reserve my energy for the main event. But G. Love had other ideas. People began rising from their mats and chairs, swaying to the infectious beats. They were simply that good. At one point, G. Love announced, “I’m buying drinks! I hit it big last night!” I’m back in Baltimore now, in my living room, still waiting for those drinks. Despite that little letdown, I thoroughly enjoyed their set, especially the catchy ‘Booty Call,’ which had the crowd clamoring for its “dirty version.”

Not long after, Ray LaMontagne graced the stage. By then, the sun had grown more forgiving, and a pleasant breeze picked up. I was happily working my way through two 24-ounce lagers, feeling quite content. But, here’s the thing: for one of the main acts of the day, Ray LaMontagne was, well, average. Don’t get me wrong—I think Ray is a genius and an incredibly talented artist. However, from where I was sitting (and dozing off), the crowd’s energy dipped a bit. People began flopping back onto their mats and chairs, and after being awake for over 24 hours, I felt the siren call of sleep. I guess Ray’s soulful tunes, while beautiful, sometimes tread a bit too close to the sleepy and gloomy side.

Fast forward an hour and a half, and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation for DMB. Folding up lawn chairs and mats became a frantic dance as everyone scrambled to get closer to the stage. The sun was setting, and people were cutting in like they were trying to board a plane. Porta-potty visits became a game of “now or never,” as finding your spot again after leaving was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Cheers erupted for every little movement on stage, and for the first time that day, I felt like I was truly one of the 25,000.

Without so much as a preamble, the Dave Matthews Band took the stage, and the crowd lost its collective mind—me included. They kicked off with ‘Don’t Drink the Water’ from their third album, followed by ‘You Might Die Trying.’ Jeff’s saxophone burst forth like a glorious fanfare, reminding everyone that despite their name, the band isn’t just about Dave Matthews. Their music is just as much about the incredible instrumental talent on display. Throughout the show, they showcased their prowess on the electric and acoustic guitars, percussion, bass, sax, and even the violin. Sure, sometimes it bordered on self-indulgent, but honestly, if I could play like that, I’d be flaunting it too.

Now, I can’t recall the exact order of their setlist, but they definitely hit all the essentials: ‘Seven,’ ‘Proudest Monkey,’ ‘Shotgun,’ ‘Cornbread,’ ‘Funny the Way It Is,’ ‘Jimi Thing’ (with David Ryan Harris joining in), ‘Shake Me Like a Monkey,’ and crowd favorites like ‘You and Me,’ ‘Satellite,’ and ‘Crash Into Me.’ For the encore, Dave teased us with a solo cover of Procol Harum’s ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ before the band joined him for ‘Stay or Leave,’ ‘Grey Street,’ and a cover of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Good Times Bad Times.’ All in all, it was a rock-solid set. Dave’s voice was as flawless live as it is in the studio—possibly better. You’d almost think he made a deal with the devil. Dressed in jeans and a black shirt, sweating like a marathon runner, Dave got right down to business without any flashy effects. DMB delivered the goods—raw and authentic. I couldn’t have imagined it any other way. With top-notch artists like O.A.R., Damien Marley, Kid Cudi, Ben Folds, Liz Phair, The Wailers, and The Roots on the lineup, this event is one for the books.

We left Bader Field looking like we’d just survived a dust storm. Somehow, every inch of us was coated in dirt, and we all desperately needed a shower. So, of course, we insisted on driving home straight. My friend and I did make a pit stop for some Bi Bim Bop, spicy Korean beef noodles and kimchi, before heading home. I was exhausted and filthy, and as I was scrubbing away in the shower, the residue literally turned black-ish. How that happened, I have no idea. Despite my body begging for mercy, I couldn’t stop smiling. After being awake for over 30 hours, I felt fresh and clean again. As I hugged my buddy Ed to sleep, I couldn’t shake the thoughts of the day—the lights, the sounds, the swaying crowd, the dancing, the cheering, the moments. I slept happy, convinced that this good time would never end.

I feel like I should jot this down before the details slip away into the abyss of my perpetually hungover brain. First things first: Dave Matthews Band is absolutely legendary! But let’s be real—you already know that.

Unlike the band’s earliest die-hard fans, I stumbled upon the genius of DMB (yes, I’ll be calling them DMB, and if that bothers you, kindly take a seat) during the mid to late nineties. At that time, their first EP, Recently, had made the rounds, but it wasn’t until their debut studio album, Under the Table and Dreaming, that DMB truly invaded my consciousness. That album birthed classics like “Ants Marching,” “What Would You Say,” and the almost too popular “Satellite.” In an era when pop music was swirling around like confetti, DMB’s beautifully poetic lyrics stood out like a sore thumb—albeit a thumb that could sing. This was the moment I was beginning to figure out my own musical identity and preferences. And let me tell you, I’m not picky; I welcome all genres into my musical buffet—even OPM novelties. So when I say DMB is one of my favorites, trust me, that’s saying something. To this day, they remain a crucial influence on my playlist.

Their sound is uniquely intriguing, like nothing I’ve ever encountered, and they quickly became my go-to for musical nourishment. After that first studio album, DMB just kept churning out one gem after another, and it’s no surprise they skyrocketed to fame and worldwide recognition. Their follow-up album, Crash, introduced hits like “Proudest Monkey,” “#41,” and the crowd-pleasing “Crash Into Me.” The hits just kept coming with Before These Crowded Streets, Everyday, Busted Stuff, Stand Up, and Big Whiskey and the GrooGrux King, creating a career that’s both widely celebrated and critically acclaimed.

While DMB was gearing up for their 2010 tour, they announced that, in celebration of their 20th anniversary, they would take a break from touring in 2011 for the first time in two decades. Cue the melodrama! This news sent die-hard fans into a tizzy, as many consider DMB road tours an integral part of their lives. I mean, come on—DMB is a touring powerhouse, holding the undisputed record for the most tickets sold by any live act. So, when they announced they’d be hosting four three-day events instead of a full tour, I practically did a cartwheel. I had to be there.

Yesterday, after working the night shift and running on fumes, I met up with friends and drove to Atlantic City for the inaugural leg of the Dave Matthews Band Caravan. It was only fitting that I join fellow enthusiasts who shared my burning passion for this momentous occasion. Had I not been working this weekend, I would have splurged on three-day tickets, but alas, responsible adulting won out. After a two-hour drive, which included a quick pit stop at an ATM, we arrived at Bader Field in high spirits. You could tell the city had put a lot of effort into making this event a success. Everything within a two-mile radius was DMB-themed—barricades, street closures, restaurants flaunting DMB signs, and security personnel everywhere. Even gas stations ten blocks away were in on the action, selling merchandise. The energy was electric.

I learned that Bader Field was once an airport, shut down after a series of unfortunate accidents (some fatal, no less). You can imagine how expansive this space is. Yet everything felt surprisingly orderly and organized. There were stalls offering quick bites, bars serving cocktails and an impressive variety of beers, and plenty of room to spread out a blanket and chill. There was even a Ferris wheel in the center of the field—because why not? The ground was dusty and the air was thick with humidity, but spirits were high.

While this event featured other artists (despite the title Dave Matthews Band Caravan), we didn’t really care about the other acts—not even the Flaming Lips, and I mean no blasphemy by that. We were there for DMB, and our mission was clear: get to their stage early and snag a prime spot.

To be continued…

To call my family tree intricate would be a gross understatement. Growing up, I harbored a misguided notion that my family was a tapestry woven with secrets—one I loathed. It wasn’t until I shed my adolescent arrogance that I realized these secrets were kept and revealed with good faith and reasonable intentions.

My matriarchal lineage could easily be cast in a soap opera. I’ll spare you the convoluted details lest I confuse you further; this tale might flow better with illustrations, but no way am I putting in that effort. Anyway, my grandmother had three husbands in her lifetime. Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of knowing her, as she passed away when my mother was still in grade school. Stories of her seeped through the family fabric, and I often imagined we would have shared a deep bond had she lived. From her first husband, she had two children; from her second, another two; and from her final marriage, one daughter—my mother. All five of her children formed a tight-knit pack of siblings. I’m sure they bickered and squabbled like any normal siblings, yet I’ve never sensed any animosity among them. Perhaps they kept it a secret, or maybe they simply got along remarkably well. Regardless, they coexisted harmoniously, despite their varied paternity.

In contrast, my patriarchal side is a much simpler affair—one that involves not a single person. My mother left my biological father before I took my first steps—or perhaps before my memory began to function. My sister, Imeen, who is four years my senior, glimpsed my biological father’s world. Her stories often revolve around his artistic talents, though at that age, she might have considered peeling an orange a talent, as toddlers tend to find amusement in the mundane. Still, I hear he had an art gallery, so perhaps I stand to be corrected. I was told he was a college professor, had a receding hairline, and sported a pornstache. I was told this and that, always hearing morsels of half-truths filtered through someone else’s memory. Yes, they were recollections, but they were not mine.

Shortly after I was born, my mother became pregnant with a man named Veniedo Reyes. I can’t pinpoint when he entered our lives; all I know is that he has always been a constant. He was there when I was born. He was there at my baptism. After nine months, my mom welcomed my sister, Nev, followed by my brothers, JV and JR. I bristle at the term “half-siblings,” as it belittles the bonds we share. That prefix diminishes the essence of brother and sister; nothing could be further from the truth. I do not have half-brothers or half-sisters; I have brothers and sisters, period. These people shape who I am, and I will love them fiercely for the rest of my life. One thing I cherish most about my family is our palpable love for one another, expressed not just in words but in actions. In the midst of this history, my mother married Veniedo, and they celebrated 25 years of marriage on December 8, 2013. I could easily delve into their love story, but I digress. This is more about my love story with Veniedo, my dad, my father.

Unlike many, my childhood memories are more like a foggy dreamscape, but one figure stands out like a beacon through the mist: my true father, Veniedo. This man was the vigilant gatekeeper of our household, ever watchful of the mischief that bubbled up from our youthful imaginations. His relentless nagging about homework and his tireless quest to make vegetables seem like the most thrilling food group possible could have earned him a PhD in parental supervision. Stern yet fair, he was the moral lighthouse guiding our ship through the treacherous waters of childhood.

Generosity flowed from him like a river—one that’s been well-fed by rain and the occasional corporate bonus. A self-made man who climbed the corporate ladder without losing his grip on humility, he remains my steadfast moral compass, pointing true north even when I’m navigating the stormy seas of adulthood.

Sundays were sacred in our household. He would return home straight from work, wearing the invisible cape of loyalty, never once betraying my mother’s trust. Their love was like a public display of affection that would make even the most romantic of poets blush—holding hands in public, as if they were the only two people in the world. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and it’s a big heart. He’s the kind of man who bravely displays his emotions, unashamed, regardless of the audience. He accepted people for who they are, with an open heart and a welcoming smile. His acceptance has been my rocket fuel, giving me the courage to dazzle the world with my true self.

While my dad is a solid father figure, adolescence was nonetheless a whirlwind for me, especially when it came to my identity. I grappled with confusing surnames and the unsettling realization that the father I’d always known might not be my biological one. This thought gnawed at me, raising a storm of questions: Who am I really? What does this name mean for me? I felt a wave of anger toward my mother. Shouldn’t I deserve to know my truth? The secrets she kept felt like heavy weights, trapping me in confusion. I wanted answers, not vague reassurances. Each time I pressed her for clarity, I was met with silence or half-truths, and the frustration bubbled over.

As I sorted through my emotions, I started to grasp that identity isn’t just about names or bloodlines. It’s about the relationships I formed and the experiences I had. Still, the uncertainty lingered, reminding me that understanding oneself is rarely straightforward. Earlier this year, curiosity got the better of me, and I embarked on a digital treasure hunt through Facebook, searching for anyone with my biological father’s last name. I shared my mission with my sister, and within a week, my sister received a message that felt like a plot twist in a soap opera:

“Nemi is my father; he passed away 12 years ago. I know this isn’t the news you were hoping for, but I felt you should know. I hope it helps with whatever you’re seeking.”

And just like that, I crafted my first memory of my biological father. I can’t recall how I felt reading that letter; I had imagined this moment countless times, wondering how it would feel. It wasn’t relief or contentment—words fail me here. All I remember is that I wasn’t sad. I stepped outside for a cigarette, finding myself laughing—not from joy, mind you, because death is no laughing matter. I suppose you can’t grieve for something you never truly had. To this day, I haven’t shed a tear over my biological father’s passing, nor do I believe I ever will. I may never comprehend how a father can leave his child without a single memory to share, but I sincerely hope he was at least half the man to his children as Veniedo is to me. I hope his other children loved him, too.

Most of the world loves their parents because of blood ties—like an obligatory family reunion where you have to pretend to enjoy your Aunt’s soggy pancit. Parents raise their children because they are theirs, and it’s easy to invest love in those who are predetermined to be part of our lives. Yet, that’s not always the case. My love for my father is anything but ordinary. Though we are not bound by blood, no one has been more of a father to me than Veniedo. Today, I celebrate one man and one man only—whose love knows no bounds. By defying biology, I found a real father in Veniedo. I am his son, and I wear that title with pride. I may not always express it, and perhaps he doesn’t fully grasp the profound influence he has had on me, but let it be known. Words may never suffice to convey my feelings, but if you look into my heart, you’ll discover a cherished place for this man—this man who has shown me that fatherhood transcends mere chromosomes. This man, my one and true father, Veniedo.

I still can’t get over how hilarious Bridesmaids was. Seriously, it got me thinking: why doesn’t Hollywood showcase funny women more often? In fact, why doesn’t the whole world do this?

The notion that men are inherently funnier is so widely accepted that one might assume it’s a scientific fact. I’ll never understand this bizarre consensus, and I disagree with it—vehemently. I had hoped this ridiculous illusion would have faded by now, given the fast-paced modern world we live in. But when I recently asked a male friend if he’d date a funny girl, he hesitated like I’d just suggested he date a three-headed llama. It was as if being funny equated to having a lazy vagina. He didn’t say that out loud, but the disinterested vibe was unmistakable.

Maybe I’ve spent my entire 25 years surrounded by the funniest women on Earth, or perhaps I’m just incredibly lucky to have encountered them. But honestly, I’ve never met a man who can make me laugh as hard as the funniest women in my life. Sure, I know plenty of funny guys, but recalling them requires an embarrassing amount of brain power compared to the endless roster of hilarious women I could list in my sleep. And since we seem to define gender by its highlights rather than its totality, I’d argue that not only are women funny, but they might even be funnier than men. At least, that’s how it appears in my tiny corner of the universe. This may not be an official statistic, but it’s mine, and that’s what counts.

So, I find it baffling that there’s even a debate about this. Sure, both genders can be funny, but why isn’t there a debate about men being funny? I just don’t get it.

At the end of the day, this all boils down to some colonial gender inequality that’s somehow still accepted. Why this is the case is beyond me, and honestly, it’s more analysis than I’m willing to tackle right now. Instead, let me encourage you to watch Bridesmaids. I promise you’ll be laughing out loud! And let’s be real—there haven’t been enough genuinely funny films lately.

Social media is currently abuzz over a young boy from the Philippines who, one afternoon, decided to bathe his puppy, hang it out to dry on a clothesline, and conduct an impromptu photo shoot. Pleased with his creative endeavor, he shared the photos on Facebook, inviting an overwhelming wave of criticism.

It wasn’t long before some of his more discerning friends swiftly condemned his actions. One by one, the digital outrage poured in, and soon Jerzon found himself at the center of a viral storm—complete with coverage from TV Patrol. While I certainly do not condone his behavior, as my partner Ed and I are devoted dog owners to our beloved Bogart, I think it’s important to consider the broader context surrounding this incident.

To be clear, I disapprove of Jerzon’s actions and hope he reflects on them. Yet, let’s take a moment to put this situation into perspective. It’s easy to join the chorus of criticism—especially when it comes from the safety of anonymity. But let’s examine this more thoughtfully.

First, we should reflect on the treatment of pets in the Philippines. I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen how the average Filipino household treats its pets, and it’s not exactly a Hallmark card scene. Most families keep dogs primarily for security, often tethered to a post and trained to bark at anyone who dares approach. Many pets spend their lives in cages, getting a bath once or twice a month—if they’re lucky. We feed them scraps and let them roast under the sun all day. The concept of exercising dogs? A foreign notion! Walking a dog might be interpreted as seeking attention, like strutting around with a bare midriff. When I first learned that dogs should be walked every single day, I was surprised, and I consider myself fairly well-informed. There’s much to be done in terms of educating pet owners about responsible care, including the importance of spaying and neutering.

While some Filipino families do keep indoor pets, this practice isn’t widespread, and in certain areas, dogs are treated as food rather than companions. And let’s not even mention that in some rural areas, dogs are considered delicacies. Tambucho gang, anyone? Need I say more? This raises serious ethical questions about our relationship with animals.

Next, consider his name: Jerzon Senador. Jer-zon. Right out of the gate, we’re off to a rocky start. I firmly believe that no self-respecting parents would name their child Jerzon. But then again, we have kids on TV named Xyriel and Zaijan who seem to know proper social decorum, so maybe my argument is a bit flimsy. Just remember, the next time you come across Jerzon’s story and feel the urge to hurl some curses, his name is Jerzon. That alone is punishment.

This situation might exemplify the debate between nature and nurture, but it does not excuse Jerzon’s actions. Fuck Jerzon! This incident will likely leave a lasting impression on him, which may serve as its own form of consequence. While he may have the ability to make choices, that doesn’t inherently make him mature.

Ultimately, it’s crucial for us to examine how we treat our pets and strive for improvement. Jerzon’s actions were misguided, but rather than continuing to criticize him, let’s focus on fostering a more compassionate approach to animal care in our society. It’s time to engage in meaningful conversations about our responsibilities as pet owners and advocates for animal welfare.

While I was busy hitting the books with all the enthusiasm of a corpse, somehow I managed to pass the Philippine nursing board exams. Honestly, standing in line at the PRC for ten hours with thousands of other students to file my test application was harder than the exam itself and should be celebrated as my real success. Ed, on the other hand, took on a couple of jobs that would make any overachiever weep with jealousy. He taught freshmen nursing students at Far Eastern University and worked as a clinical nurse, bestowing his vast reservoir of wisdom upon the next generation of Filipino nurses. Then he snagged a job offer from a prestigious hospital in Baltimore. With a cocktail of excitement and sheer terror, he leapt across the ocean, leaving me to ponder the existential dread of long-distance relationships. Who knew love could feel like a geography exam?

After what felt like an eternity—four months of agonizing separation and incessant daydreams about our future together, to be exact—I finally ditched everything familiar and flew thousands of miles to follow him. There I was, cramming four years of nursing knowledge into a mere three weeks, surrounded by textbooks, audiobooks, and a mountain of self-doubt. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I’d pass, but somehow, against all odds and the laws of probability, I did. Surprise, surprise!

Suddenly, I was a nurse, and it felt random. It felt like I had won a TV show—if the jackpot was a badge and a pair of scrubs instead of cash.

Since then, I’ve been practicing, and I’d like to say I’m “alright”—though some days, “alright” feels like an overly optimistic assessment. There are times when I wish “stupidity” were a legitimate clinical diagnosis, just to help me cope with some of my patients. I’ve been tempted to suggest that particularly exasperating individuals consider leaving against medical advice. “Oh, you Googled your symptoms? Congratulations! You’ve officially graduated to self-appointed medical expert!” And dealing with family members? That’s a whole different circus. If only darting overly anxious relatives with Lorazepam were legal, I’d be the proud owner of a mini crossbow, ready to take aim at the next neurotic visitor.

You encounter patients who think a mere 24 hours of constipation qualifies as a critical emergency. Really? It takes a respectful amount of restraint not to smack their faces in annoyance. And on those days when everything that could possibly go wrong does—as if the universe has conspired against me—you might find me yearning to peel my own face off in frustration.

But it’s true: you can learn to love something if you try hard enough. In fact, I like to think I’m quite good at what I do—at least better than most nurses I know. Maybe not a superstar, but definitely above average. I’m not lazy, first and foremost. I genuinely care for my patients, and my skills have developed to the point that you’d hardly believe I was once considered a subpar student. They say if you teach a hesitant man to fish, he might just become a better fisherman than you. Okay, I might’ve just made that up, but you catch my drift.

You don’t have to love what you do to excel at it. Much like a certain profession involving a lot of bending over and very little love for the job, I find myself thriving in nursing, perhaps more than I’d care to admit. There, I said it.

There’s a lot about my work that I find fulfilling. I adore interacting with people and uncovering their stories. Each patient is a unique puzzle, a living novel filled with chapters of triumph, tragedy, and occasional plot twists. They’re sick and in need of care, and I can’t say I resent being the one to provide it. This job can be profoundly rewarding, even if it sometimes makes you want to hang yourself with an IV line. It’s a delicate balancing act, requiring you to navigate current technology while employing a healthy dose of intuition. You must remain calm and quick-thinking in emergencies; there’s no time for indecision when someone’s survival is at stake. And let’s not forget the hours of standing and walking, which is basically a marathon in scrubs. It’s an exhilarating, tumultuous, and occasionally tragic vocation, and it’s hard not to become invested in it.

Nursing may wear many hats, but boring is certainly not one of them. Oh, and did I mention the pay isn’t too shabby either? It’s almost enough to make me forget about the 2 AM bloodbaths and the delightful aroma of antiseptic that clings to me long after my shift ends.

Here’s what I know for certain: just as I recognized back then that Ed and I were destined for a long haul together, I also understand that nursing will become a part of me for the rest of my life. Adaptation is a curious beast. While I’m comfortable in my current life, I know there’s more out there waiting for me. The average person may not evolve into the ideal they envisioned in their youth, but all I want is to live out my life. It’s daunting to consider that this is my life, but it is—mine to shape, to build, and yes, even to dismantle. I just hope I’m clever enough to figure it all out before I find myself chasing the fleeting years of my existence.

But for now, I am a nurse, and that’s what I do—an unlikely savior in scrubs, armed with a stethoscope and a penchant for dark humor. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I must confess: I had to wrestle with being comfortable in my role as a practicing nurse. I’m not merely referring to the job itself; everyone navigates the waters of their respective jobs. No, I’m talking about the nursing vocation as a whole—the myriad nuances beyond policies and procedures that shape the very art of nursing. Yes, there is an art to it, and it took me years to digest that truth.

For a long time, my heart wasn’t in it. I like to think I’m the kind of person who follows his heart in all endeavors—an assertion that has earned me the rather annoying label of “wild child.” In the immortal words of a certain teenage girl who, shall we say, made headlines for her rather unconventional lifestyle on Maury Povich, “Whateva! Whateva! I do what I want! You don’t know me! I do what I want!” Ah, yes, that was me—minus any unfortunate wear and tear on my vagina.

Practically everyone I encountered during my half-hearted pursuit of a nursing degree can attest to my spectacularly lackluster performance as a student. Fresh out of high school, I found myself an hour into the welcome lecture on my first day, contemplating the grim prospect of self-inflicted harm. I grasped at every excuse to avoid classes and, oh boy, did I excel at that! I would indulge in every form of debauchery I could find; it was my sole consolation. Studying for tests? Never heard of it. So, naturally, after my freshman year, I informed my mother that I wouldn’t be returning for the next academic year. She was, understandably, heartbroken. I had my own doubts, too. I was young, adrift, and utterly clueless about my future. The notion of dropping out felt like leaping into a frigid lake—no turning back. I leapt, and there I was: a college dropout.

Meanwhile, my relationship with Ed was blossoming. We decided to cohabitate, and I took a job as a call center agent, feeling rather self-important in my newfound independence. No longer bound by my parents’ rules, I was barely 18 and earning a paycheck. I excelled at my job—aside from my punctuality, of course. I earned approximately PHP 17,000 a month, about $400 in today’s currency. Most of that went to clothes, food, alcohol, and taxi fares (Cubao to Makati). As I approached payday, I would invariably find myself as broke as a beggar. This cycle continued for six months, during which I began to ponder my life choices and my uncertain future.

Despite my capriciousness as a teenager, one thing about my future was crystal clear: Ed had to be a part of it, and I wanted to be a part of his. I may have been irresponsible, but I was determined not to end up destitute. Ed was thriving in his third year of nursing school, seemingly at peace with his path—one might even say he had found his calling. He always envisioned building a life for himself in the United States, and it was only a matter of time. It became evident that my call center job wouldn’t allow me to afford my own car, let alone a house. While Ed was resolute in his ambitions, I remained blissfully adrift. A decision loomed, and after much reflection, I reluctantly sold myself out. Seething, I re-enrolled in nursing school. This meant that my mother would have to cover my tuition, half of my rent, utilities, and graciously provide me with a weekly allowance. “Boo hoo!” says my blissfully ungrateful piece-of-shit self.

Of course, returning to school didn’t magically eliminate my disdain for it. I fell back into my old habits faster than you can say motherfucking pasaway and promptly wasted away. At one point, I had to pay the school PHP 30,000 to pass a subject they were poised to fail me in due to my atrocious attendance. And believe me, I’m not proud of that. I must reiterate: I am not proud of that. More often than I care to admit, I would stumble into class tipsy, doodling absentmindedly while my classmates focused intently. I suppose I was clever in choosing a diploma mill over a university. Again, not a point of pride. Yet, against all odds, I graduated. Without a single drop of blood, sweat, or tears, I was free! Or so I thought.

To be continued…

Hello, dear readers. All three of you! Yes, it’s me—the prodigal blogger—returning to the digital realm like a long-lost artifact unearthed from the depths of the internet. As I embark on this journey back to blogging, I must confess that reacclimating to this rhythm may take a while. Not too long ago, I was a veritable bard of the blogosphere, spinning tales and sharing musings with abandon, especially during the golden age of LiveJournal, when the community thrived like a wild garden. But over time, my blog became a mere ghost town, not for lack of inspiration, but because life decided to deliver a series of swift kicks to my metaphorical backside. The allure of blogging faded, and like clockwork, the bloggers I once knew began dropping like flies—one by one, we faded into the void. Somehow, I too vanished, leaving my thoughts dangling in the ether. I’m acutely aware of the unfinished business I left behind, and while I feel a twinge of embarrassment, I hope to make amends for all those unsolicited opinions, untold anecdotes, and emotional dramas that went undocumented. After all, I did adore blogging, and I owe it to myself—and perhaps to you—to find a way back to this delightful pastime. If only I could remember how to get started.

In retrospect, it seems my life has taken a radical pivot. I used to drift through life with a carefree nonchalance, blissfully indifferent to where I might land. Of course, I understood that my future mattered in some grand, existential sense, but I was far too obstinate to invest in myself or to truly engage with the myriad possibilities life had to offer. A few years ago, my Saturday nights were spent lost in a haze of revelry, drowning in a cocktail of drugs and alcohol, chasing the fleeting high of indulgence. Fast forward to today, and I now find myself contentedly lounging in my living room, revisiting the treasures of my ’90s playlist, and sharing the space with my loyal canine companion. I often sit here, bemused, wondering, “When on earth did this transformation occur?” The uninhibited spirit I once embodied has been replaced by a rather subdued version of myself. It appears that indifference can only carry you so far before reality delivers a rather rude awakening.

The truth is, a significant part of me misses the reckless abandon of my former life. Yet, the passage of time is an unforgiving taskmaster. Responsibilities accumulate like an insatiable beast, demanding that I grow up whether I like it or not. Alarm clocks, once my most dreaded foe, and I have forged a surprisingly harmonious relationship, built on my relentless attempts to resurrect my slothful tendencies. Gone are the days of carefree mistakes—now, every decision feels monumental and irrevocable. However, I must clarify—every so often, in the name of preserving my sanity, I unleash my inner wild child, channeling the spirit of Lindsay Lohan and engaging in spirited discussions about the questionable hygiene of certain individuals. All thanks to friends who know how to coax the beast from within me. After all, life is meant to be felt—and sometimes, that feeling involves embracing the absurdity of our shared human experience.

I moved out of my parents’ house at the tender age of 18, yet I was still very much tethered to their financial support. I dabbled in the workforce for a mere six months, only to drain my scant earnings on clothes and other frivolities that certainly didn’t make the survival cut. Now, as I approach the milestone of 26 (GAAAH!), I realize I found a peculiar joy in pretending to cultivate my independence while remaining the same spoiled brat, cleverly extorting my parents for rent money to sustain the illusion of adulthood. As you can imagine, this entire transition to living in the States with Ed has been overwhelmingly life-altering, to say the least. Armed with my culinary skills and dishwashing prowess, I now face the daunting task of navigating the complexities of adult life largely on my own.

Not to sound puffed-up, but I’ve enjoyed a rather cushy existence, complete with assistance. At one point, my parents employed three housemaids, which at the time seemed perfectly normal. Now, the very thought of it makes me cringe—though I probably still won’t, because, let’s be honest, self-awareness is a slippery slope. The challenge of plunging headfirst into an independent existence is that self-doubt becomes an ever-present companion. Every decision feels momentous and indelible, a stark contrast to the carefree choices of my youth. I’m certain my earlier decisions felt equally significant, but today feels different. Today, I genuinely feel that my life is mine—no disclaimers, no safety nets. You either figure things out, or, well, you’re in for a rough ride. It’s not quite the adulting experience I envisioned, and the frustration can be palpable. I suppose I always thought I’d have house help for the rest of my days. Oh, how woefully mistaken I was.

So, for those of you who care to indulge in this journey of rediscovery, allow me to reintroduce myself. You see, I’m a changed person—an evolution that is as bittersweet as it is enlightening. I’ve learned that the path to true independence is fraught with challenges, but it’s also peppered with moments of joy and self-discovery that make the struggle worthwhile. Here’s to a new chapter—one where I reclaim my voice, share my musings, and embrace the beautiful chaos that is life.