I’ve been in full hibernation mode this week. My head feels as if it’s been run over by a dump truck, and I’m utterly exhausted from all this splendid sleeping. “The Prestige” is beckoning from HBO, tempting me to dive into its intricate plot, but I’ve been wisely advised against wallowing in those murky waters. Sure, it evokes fond memories of our escapades in Hong Kong, but let’s be honest: it’s bound to stir up a melodrama that no one really needs.

This long-distance situation with Ed has turned me into a productivity black hole. I haven’t been this unproductive in my entire life, ever. My to-do list has morphed into a cruel joke, taunting me from the corner of my room while I sit here, immobilized by a cocktail of ennui and existential dread.

Honestly, I’m grappling with these occasional bouts of loneliness as if they’re slippery pigs at a slaughterhouse. Should I plaster on a forced smile and engage in some mindless antics, or should I embrace the gloom like an old friend? It’s been the longest we’ve been apart in four years, and navigating this emotional labyrinth feels akin to trying to parallel park a bus in EDSA Cubao. What’s a boy to do?

Last night, my family and I finally had our belated Valentine’s dinner at Seven Corners. It was originally scheduled for the 14th, but my mother decided to ghost us for a romantic evening with Dad at the Manila Hotel. “I hope you understand,” she texted, as if my siblings and I were owed a date. Well, Mom: we completely understand. It’s heartwarming to know my parents are still smitten after all these years, but it does lead me to wonder—what’s next? To be fair, I spent Valentine’s Day with friends and enough alcohol to fill a small swimming pool, so who’s really winning here? 

My mother checks in on me incessantly, which may either indicate I’m radiating some serious depressive vibes or she’s genuinely concerned. She even goes so far as to check on Ed occasionally—because, of course, one must monitor their son’s long-distance boyfriend as if he’s a stray cat in need of care.

My younger brother keeps inviting me to join him for drinks on our rooftop, which has become a wonderful escape from my endless bingeing and spiraling thoughts. There’s something undeniably therapeutic about gazing at the city lights while pretending my life isn’t a series of unfortunate events. I appreciate the affection; it certainly makes my loneliness a touch more bearable, even if I still find myself in pajamas by 3 PM.

On a rather unfortunate note, I’m battling an atrocious case of chapped lips. It’s truly grotesque. I’ve been slathering on Vaseline all week, but my lips seem to have gone on strike while Ed and I are apart. And don’t get me started on the weight gain—that’s a saga for another time, involving late-night snacks that would make even the most disciplined dieter weep.

For the love of all that is sacred, I need to stop existing in this manner. What’s the plan here? Embrace the chaos? Find solace in the bottom of a wine bottle? Perhaps I should take up knitting or meditation—anything to distract myself from the fact that I’m one existential crisis away from a full-blown meltdown. But hey, at least I’m self-aware enough to recognize I’m a hot mess. Here’s to hoping I can turn this ship around before I unwittingly become the cautionary tale in some future family narrative. Cheers!

The last thing these politicians should be doing is underestimating the Filipino people. Our intelligence has endured enough insults to fill a fucking library, and we’re running out of shelf space. Sure, it’s completely natural to feel drained by the never-ending circus of incompetence and corruption, but that doesn’t give anyone a free pass to trample on our dignity.

We’ve seen it all: the empty promises, the grandstanding, the wayward priorities that seem to reflect more of a self-serving agenda than a genuine concern for the welfare of our communities. It’s enough to make even the most patient among us want to throw in the towel. But here’s the kicker: the more you push us, the more you underestimate our resilience. We’re not just a collection of faces in a crowd; we’re a tapestry of intellect, creativity, and tenacity.

And, Gloria, please, do us a favor and stop trying to dictate how we fucking feel. Your attempts to play the role of the emotional puppeteer are as transparent as they are tiresome. We’re not your marionettes dancing to your whims; we’re individuals with voices, thoughts, and a collective frustration that’s bubbling just beneath the surface.

So, while you and your corrupt cronies may think you’re pulling the strings, just remember: the Filipino spirit is far more resilient than you realize. We’re fed up, yes, but we’re also awake and ready to reclaim our narrative. Keep underestimating us, and you might just find that we’re not as easy to dismiss as you thought. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I don’t know—you just might end up in jail paying for your sins, bitch. It happened to Erap, well, kinda.

Today, I woke up feeling a bit heavy, like the world outside was wrapped in a blanket of gray. Days like this only amplify my longing for you, making every moment feel a little emptier. The air-conditioning was blasting at full power, and, as usual, I was all alone, cocooned in my thoughts. I fished my laptop from its spot under the TV and noticed you weren’t online yet—probably off enjoying some time with my sister, sharing laughs.

I made my way downstairs, the cold marble steps beneath me, to whip up a simple lunch: just some bread slathered with artichoke and spinach spread. Not exactly a culinary masterpiece, but it was something. The house felt eerily quiet, just me and the sound of my own thoughts. Then, my phone buzzed, cutting through the silence—it was you! I rushed back to my room, only to realize I’d forgotten to grab a glass of milk. But there you were on my screen, your face glowing even through the grainy camera, a little reminder of the warmth I was missing. But you were still thousands of miles away, a thought that stung a bit.

If you were here, I would be eagerly waiting for you to come home from work. I’d hear Jedi barking like a furry alarm clock, giving away your approach even from a distance. I could already picture myself hiding behind the door, ready to spring a surprise on you. When you finally walked in, I’d pull you into a hug so tight that it might just squeeze out all the stress of your day. You’d be worn out from a long day with your students, your skin still sticky from the relentless Manila heat, but your smile would light up the room, a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds. We’d share a tender kiss, and you’d hand me something small and meaningful—maybe a tag with our names, new batteries for the razor we share, laundry detergent, or even a quirky snack you thought I’d like—little tokens that carry so much weight in our world.

While you showered, the sound of water cascading would fill the air of our tiny apartment, and I’d linger in the bedroom, rifling through the plastic closet to pick out something nice for us to wear. You’d suggest a shirt, and I’d chuckle, opting for something a bit fancier, wanting to remind you that tonight is special. We’d help each other get ready, adjusting collars and smoothing out wrinkles, because let’s face it, our fashion sense is borderline tragic without each other’s guidance. You’d lock the doors with that practiced ease of yours while I called for a taxi, and, of course, you’d always double-check the locks. You were always more domesticated.

In the taxi, we’d sit close, our legs brushing against each other, hands intertwined like we were afraid to let go. The city lights would flicker by, casting a warm glow inside the car, and we’d hum along to whatever was playing, creating our own little bubble amidst the chaos of the city outside.

You’d order something healthy—perhaps a beautifully grilled fish or a vibrant vegetable dish—while I’d dive into something indulgent, like a juicy steak or a plate of pasta dripping with sauce. You’d share stories about your day, the triumphs and tribulations of your students spilling from your lips, and I’d weave in some lighthearted anecdotes to ease your stress. I’d excitedly rave about the latest show I’m binge-watching, trying to convince you to join my obsession, but I know you’d likely prefer to lose yourself in music instead. I’d signal the waiter for a drink—maybe a glass of red wine to warm us up and loosen the edges of the day.

After dinner, we’d playfully bicker over our next adventure. I’d pull up movie listings on my phone. “Let’s steer clear of ‘The Hottie and the Nottie.’ I hear ‘Michael Clayton’ is actually worth our time.” “Feeling adventurous? We could slay some zombies again in The House of the Dead 4.” “Or how about a karaoke showdown? Because, let’s face it, who doesn’t love belting out terrible renditions of our favorite songs?” With you, the options are always endless, and every choice feels like an adventure waiting to happen.

When we finally got home, I’d tidy up the bed, making it a cozy nest for us. I’d shower you with kisses until we both got swept away in the moment, laughter and warmth filling the air. We’d talk about everything and nothing until our eyelids grew heavy, then settle into each other’s arms—big spoon, little spoon, like we were made to fit together. As I drifted off, I’d think, “Tomorrow, we can do this all over again,” and fall asleep with a smile, knowing that you’re my favorite part of every day.

I miss you, my Valentine. This distance is a cruel twist of fate, but I know we’ll weather it together. April can’t come soon enough.

Call me trivial, but I find myself utterly captivated by the strikingly distinctive features of Owen Wilson whenever I watch his films. His gloriously crooked nose stands out so prominently that it almost assumes a character of its own, strutting across the screen with the flamboyance of an arrogant peacock. It commands attention, defying the conventional parameters of Hollywood beauty and, in doing so, elevates his performances to a realm that is uniquely his own.

Wilson is an exceptional comedian, and his acting talent is undeniable. Yet, the undeniable presence of his nose—so idiosyncratic and charmingly askew—invites speculation about the narrative it might weave. One cannot help but ponder the extraordinary stories that could be encapsulated within that singular feature. My gaze drifts, fixated on this fascinating quirk, and I often find myself grappling with an unsettling sense of guilt for allowing my attention to linger there. Surely, with his resources, he could easily opt for corrective surgery, which many would argue would be a prudent investment. Yet, this contemplation raises an intriguing question: Would an Owen Wilson with a conventional nose retain the same charismatic charm that endears him to audiences? Strikingly, his unconventional feature adds layers to his persona, infusing it with authenticity and character that might very well be lost in a more standard face. The very fact that he has chosen not to pursue cosmetic alteration only deepens my intrigue, prompting me to reflect on the societal pressures surrounding beauty and conformity in the entertainment industry.

Just what the hell is the deal with his nose?

I’d argue that the president’s predicament isn’t nearly as complicated as everyone insists it is. Honestly, if she wants to fix this circus of horrors, all she really needs to do is kick her husband Mike to the curb, disown her son Mikey, and fire her entourage of sycophants. Easy, right? Who knows? She might even earn some respect from the Filipino people. And if she plays her cards right, we might even leave her alone for a bit, which would be a nice change of pace.

Let’s start with the first gentleman—who, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly winning any beauty contests. If “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I can only assume the beholder is legally blind. His gut is practically the size of a third-trimester pregnancy, which, let’s face it, is impressive in its own right. He’s had more open-heart surgeries than a teleserye star has had plot twists, and I don’t need a medical degree to know that kind of baggage doesn’t do wonders for your love life. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo isn’t a supermodel, but for someone in her 60s, she’s holding her own. And if we’re comparing fashion sense, she could definitely give most school principals a run for their money.

And let’s not forget the juicy rumors about FG Mike’s affair with his accountant. Gloria would see those photos splashed across the tabloids and practically steam, as reported by Time Magazine. In response to her husband’s extracurricular activities, Gloria famously declared she was “married to the country.” Well, ma’am, after all the scandals he’s thrown her way, it’s high time she gave him the ol’ lumayas ka sa pamamahay ko. In the immortal words of Beyoncé, “To the left, to the left. Everything you own in a box to the left.” It’s a catchy tune, but it also serves as a great metaphor for marital bliss—or lack thereof.

Now, let’s pivot to the loud-mouthed son, Mikey. I mean, really—Mike and Mikey? Talk about a lack of creativity. Gloria’s actor-politician son has a remarkable talent for putting her in a bad light. Mikey, known for cinematic masterpieces like “Masamang Ugat” and “Sablay Ka Na, Pasaway Ka Pa,” is essentially a man-child with far too much power and far too little self-awareness. With the recent ousting of Jose de Venecia due to “loss of confidence,” Mikey has truly made a name for himself. To borrow from his 2001 movie “Di Kita Ma-Reach,” it’s almost laughable. Many suspect JDV’s impeachment is simply Mikey’s attempt at revenge against JDV’s son, Joey de Venecia III. Are politicians really incapable of coming up with unique names for their kids? It’s like they think “Junior” and “the third” are the height of creativity. But I digress. I’m convinced Mikey bribed 134 congressmen to sign his ridiculous manifesto. He might have struck a blow against JDV, but in doing so, he’s also strengthened the opposition. So, Gloria, for your own sanity, disown Mikey. You’ve still got Luli and Iggy—lesser evils with names that sound like they belong in a sitcom.

Now, we can’t ignore the ZTE Broadband Deal Scandal, which is like the cherry on top of this absurd sundae. Gloria should really be more discerning about her choice of associates. If we compare former Comelec Chairman Benjamin Abalos to Rodolfo Lozada (the key witness in this whole NBN debacle), the difference is as clear as day. They both have a lot to lose, but Lozada is clearly the lesser evil here. It’s almost comical that we’ve reached this point, but sometimes we have to settle for the lesser of two evils. Abalos is utterly useless, while Lozada—a visibly weary man—has stepped into the spotlight to expose the mess that is Gloria’s administration. It’s like watching a sitcom where the least likely character becomes the hero.

You can choose to believe Lozada’s testimonies or not, but it’s hard to ignore the idea that the opposition we elected might actually hate our country enough to tear it apart for personal gain. But then again, we are talking about politicians here. We’ve got the son of a prominent ally of the president floundering, and Lozada, whose family is suffering terribly through this ordeal. I genuinely struggle to see what Lozada hopes to gain from all this. These whistleblowers have so much at stake, and given this administration’s track record, it’s likely there’s some truth in what they’re saying.

Though it’s a long shot, I sincerely hope this scandal leads to something meaningful for the Filipino people. The administration has a knack for exhausting us with issues and making us forget that anything ever happened. Case in point: that breakfast meeting in Malacañang where around 190 congressmen were handed envelopes stuffed with P200,000 to P500,000 in cash as send-off gifts. Just like that—poof!—out of the news cycle and forgotten. Seriously? Is this the best our leaders can do? When do we wake up from this nightmare? I’d love to not care, but sometimes the circus is so in-your-face that you can’t help but take notice.

So here’s the takeaway: Gloria, take a hard look at the company you keep. Ditch the dead weight, rein in your son, and for the love of all that is good, choose your battles wisely. The Filipino people deserve better than this garbage leadership. If you can manage that, who knows? You might just find a way to make this mess a little less of a disaster. And if nothing else, you’ll have given us all something to laugh about—preferably while we’re not crying over it.

I had a great time with my family yesterday—well, aside from our youngest, JR, who was feeling under the weather. We made our pilgrimage to Christ the King Parish for mass, even though my agnosticism isn’t exactly a well-kept secret from my mother. In a moment of uncharacteristic bravery—or perhaps sheer cowardice—I once penned her a heartfelt letter confessing my disbelief in God, because facing her directly would have been akin to shattering her delicate heart into a million pieces. She’s fully aware of my aversion to church; I attend primarily because we eat dinner as a family after Sunday mass. Let’s be honest: nothing says “I love my family” quite like betraying your principles for a plate of delicious food.

Speaking of my mother, I’ve noticed that she’s become increasingly intolerant of the outdoor heat lately, unable to step foot indoors without the comforting embrace of air-conditioning. Menopausal hot flashes have transformed her into a living, breathing pressure cooker, much to the exasperation of my siblings and me. Just three weeks ago, my dad gifted her a Rolex watch, and she feigned disdain for it. Ah, the delightful complexities of womanhood in midlife—who knew the path to enlightenment was littered with luxury timepieces and unpredictable temperature fluctuations?

But I digress. As the mass began, the Angelus rang out, prompting everyone to stand. What followed was a moment that the fearless Kathy Griffin would undoubtedly classify as the ‘Church Giggles.’ It was all smooth sailing until the reader, a diminutive lady at the podium, decided to pronounce “Hail” with an extra syllable. “Hail-y Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you,” she proclaimed, enunciating “hail-y” with all the pride of a Shakespearean actor delivering a soliloquy. I surveyed the congregation, hoping for a shared moment of disbelief, but apparently, I was alone in my comedic torment. If my sister Imeen had been there, we’d have been exchanging eye rolls and subtle elbow jabs, each of us in on the absurdity of the situation. My cheeks were puffing up with the effort of stifling laughter, and I could feel my chest begin to spasm, a physical manifestation of the impending giggle fit.

Eventually, I succumbed to the inevitable. Laughter erupted from me like a poorly timed sneeze in a quiet library. Nobody else joined me; I was the lone rebel against the solemnity of the moment. I tried with all my might to suppress my mirth, but the Church Giggles, as it turns out, are a force of nature. I could feel my mother’s disapproving side-eye piercing through me from the pews, and the stares from fellow parishioners were palpable. The more I fought it, the worse it got. I ultimately excused myself before I became a full-blown disruption, missing a portion of the Eucharist. Oh, the tragedy! But, in the grand scheme of things, I did return, knelt, sang the gospels, and partook in the body of Christ. So perhaps I redeemed myself, at least in the eyes of the divine—or at least in my own mind.

This wasn’t my first encounter with these uncontrollable fits of laughter. No, this particular episode didn’t even unfold in a church, but it was nonetheless a religious experience of sorts. Last year, when my dad was marooned in St. Luke’s Medical for a dismal couple of weeks, some old friends from ‘The Lord’s Flock’ decided to pay him a visit. This Catholic Charismatic group, once the pride of my parents’ social calendar, sent Mayor Moises Villaseñor and the infamous Fr. Joey Faller (affectionately dubbed the Healing Priest) to “pray over” my dad. Ironically, my father’s condition took a nosedive shortly after their visit.

As the ‘Flock’ folks gathered, they asked everyone in my dad’s hospital room—including me—to form a prayer circle and hold hands. I was clutching my brother’s hand in one grasp and a complete stranger’s in the other. It was the perfect recipe for social discomfort. The prayer leader began, and while everyone else had their eyes tightly shut, I kept mine wide open—a rookie mistake of epic proportions. The leader was praying “freestyle,” and I attempted to join in with the familiar prayers: “Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” “Glory Be.” I knew all the words! But then, out of nowhere, someone from the circle would interject with fervent affirmations, catching me off-guard like a jump scare in a horror film. “Amen!” “Yes, Lord!” “Jesus, save us!” It became increasingly uncomfortable.

Then, in a shocking turn of events, the ‘Flock’ folks began speaking at breakneck speed, their words devolving into a cacophony of strange sounds and guttural noises. I swear, it sounded like they were channeling some ancient spirits. “Lalashakamalala! Shakayalalalama!” I later learned this phenomenon was known as ‘speaking in tongues,’ a divine language supposedly used when the Holy Spirit takes control. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. The absurdity of the situation struck me, and I erupted into a fit of laughter so violent that I had to bury my face in my shirt to conceal my embarrassment. I’m still baffled that I made it out of that prayer circle alive. The ‘Lord’s Flock’ folks were undoubtedly not amused by my lack of decorum.

Honestly, at this point, I doubt it’s even that hot in hell. But who knows? Guess I’ll find out when I see you there!

So, I tinkered with my overrides and, lo and behold, managed to whip up a header and background that totally outshine what I threw together this afternoon. At least I can finally ditch those cringe-worthy video placeholders on my friends’ page—truly a major win! The old rose background on the right has surprisingly grown on me, much like that one friend who overstays their welcome but somehow becomes part of the furniture. Ironically, I designed a layout that’s perfect for a monitor with a resolution of 1024 × 768, while my own setup favors 1280 × 800. But hey, who needs consistency? And more importantly, who the fuck cares?

Ah, the sweet siren call of sleep is tugging at me like a toddler with a sugar rush, yet here I am, wide awake and typing away. I seriously need some shut-eye—my eyelids feel like they’re auditioning for a role in a heavy metal band, and my brain is a chaotic jumble of half-baked ideas and random thoughts.

All day long, I’ve been mindlessly mumbling “ma ma say, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa” like it’s my personal theme song. Eating? Check. Showering? Yep. Even while engaging in a riveting game of fetch with my feisty pup, Chiquita, I’ve driven myself to the brink of annoyance. And let’s be real, I’m not even a fan of that song—the Michael Jackson one, and perhaps the Rihanna one as well. It’s not like it’s Shakespeare or anything; more like a catchy earworm that refuses to let go. Seriously, what does “ma ma say, ma ma sa, ma ma coo sa” even mean? It’s like a mantra for the mildly confused, and yet my tongue is having a party saying it. Is it an ancient voodoo curse?

Maybe this is what sleep deprivation does to a person—turns them into a lyrical robot, spouting nonsense like a caffeinated parrot. Am I losing my mind? Quite possibly! But if I’m going down, I’m going down with style, sporting a freshly minted LiveJournal layout that’s both pretty and utterly impractical.

So, as the day fades away and I reflect on the absurdity of it all, I can’t help but chuckle at my own ridiculousness. Pfffft, good night! May your dreams be less chaotic than my waking hours.

I just finished watching “The Witches” on HBO, and it was like unearthing a time capsule filled with memories—some warm and fuzzy, others a bit horrifying. This movie terrorized me as a kid in the ’90s, but now, that fear has softened into a strange kind of affection. It’s a comforting relic of my childhood, filled with iconic moments: the Grand High Witch, her elaborate prosthetics, those outrageous wigs, and the green fumes swirling ominously as children transform into mice. It was my gateway into the horror genre, a genre that has shaped much of my taste and perspective.

I first encountered this film during a blissfully uncomplicated time—when my mom would bring home Betamax tapes, Chocomallows (she buys those chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies in wholesale), and an eclectic mix of other goodies that always made me and my siblings happy. After school, I’d sink into those tapes, often while juggling a game of “Super Mario Brothers.” Who needed fresh air and sunlight when you had the magic of storytelling to immerse yourself in? Horror films, with all their thrills and chills, practically raised me. “Jason Goes to Hell,” “Leprechaun,” “Candyman,” and “Hellraiser” were my after-school specials. It’s a wonder I turned out even remotely functional.

And then there was my aunt, whom I lovingly called ‘Nanay.’ Whenever I misbehaved, she would threaten to unleash the Grand High Witch on me. Nothing instills a sense of dread quite like the thought of being turned into a rodent by a flamboyantly terrifying witch. It was her way of keeping me in line, a bizarre but effective form of discipline.

Now, looking back, I realize those were simpler times. Adulting has kicked my ass in ways I never anticipated. Who knew that childhood was a golden age of blissful ignorance? Back then, my emotions were straightforward—like a light switch: on or off, no dimmer in between. I often forget just how uncomplicated life was. Now, it feels like the universe has decided to slap me with reality checks on a regular basis. Sure, I’m “tougher” now—wiser and fiercely independent—but I’m also more jaded and less content. The things that once brought me joy seem to slip through my fingers like sand.

Even Christmas, which used to be filled with magic and wonder, has lost its sparkle. I find myself reflecting on why that is. Is it the weight of expectations? The relentless march of time? I’ve developed this theory that perhaps humans aren’t meant to live for a century. Life expectancy should be short and sweet, like a candy bar consumed in one sitting—delicious but fleeting. Most older folks I know seem to carry an air of resignation, as if they’ve exhausted every drop of joy life has to offer. It makes me wonder if we’re meant to embrace our inner children—indulgent, foolish, and carefree—rather than conform to a checklist of societal norms that dictate what happiness should look like.

Growing up often feels like a trade-off, exchanging genuine joy for a sense of numbness. Social standards weigh heavily on us, until one day we wake up wondering where our old selves have gone. If I could rewind the clock on maturity, I’d jump at the chance. Now that I’ve tasted both childhood and adulthood, I find myself yearning for the carefree bliss of being a kid again. I don’t want to be tougher or wiser; I simply want to find joy again in the little things. I want to be able to say “I don’t care,” and truly mean it, free from the shackles of societal expectations.

Yet here I am, navigating this complex circus called life. In many ways, I’m still that little kid, fearful of making mistakes, terrified of being turned into a mouse. And honestly, I’d much rather be human than scurry around looking for crumbs. As I reflect on this wild ride, I can’t help but long for those simpler days when my biggest worry was whether I’d have time to play Super Mario after dinner. It’s a bittersweet realization, but perhaps it’s in this longing that we find a path back to ourselves—a reminder that happiness is often found in the simplest of moments, waiting to be rediscovered.

So, I woke up at an ungodly hour today. Why? Well, the universe has a twisted sense of humor. I turned on the TV, hoping to find some semblance of entertainment, to no success. I spent a good five minutes channel surfing, but alas, Animal Planet was stuck in a time loop of reruns. Fantastic.

Downstairs, I ventured in search of breakfast, only to find that my parents, in their infinite wisdom, had decided to observe Ash Wednesday by abstaining from food. Great! I would’ve heated up the leftover pasta from yesterday, but my motivation was as absent as my willpower. The grocery situation? Let’s just say it was dire.

Things were shaping up to be a real joyride.

Next, I walked off to the bathroom for a little pick-me-up, only to discover that my lighter had vanished into the abyss. I could have fetched a box of matches from downstairs, but the thought of moving felt like an Olympic event. So, I swallowed my medicine instead—joy—and realized today marked the last day of my antibiotics. Wowowee! A small victory, at least.

I climbed back into bed, curling up like a human pretzel, desperately trying to shake off the blues. I doubled up my comforter, but even that wasn’t enough to fend off the chill. I had grand plans to catch up on Dexter, but of course, my iPod headphones had gone missing. With all avenues of entertainment closed off, I found myself wandering into the dark, twisted landscape of the internet.

Just when I thought my annoyance couldn’t possibly escalate, I stumbled upon this.

What the fuck!

I was casually tuning into “The Buzz” when I spotted my sister’s godfather, Dr. Abe Marinduque, being interviewed by Boy Abunda. Doc Abe, as my parents affectionately refer to him, was the man who quite literally delivered me into this world. Doc Abe isn’t quite a celebrity so seeing him in “The Buzz” was a bit perplexing. Apparently, he’s now the medical director at the upscale aesthetic clinic, Beverly Hills 6750. Quite the career pivot.

During the interview, Boy Abunda brought up the rather juicy scandal involving David Bunevacz and Jessica Rodriguez, who allegedly managed to siphon off millions from the company’s funds. These two have now taken refuge in the U.S. after years of flaunting a lifestyle that would make a Marcos blush, all while the rest of the country grapples with poverty. I mean, do they really think that BMW X5 was worth the public shaming? I doubt the leather interior is that comforting.

And as for their supposed partner, the “Beverly Hills Surgical Institute”? Yeah, that’s about as real as the White Lady in Balete Drive—it does not exist. Oh, and rumor has it that Bunevacz’s business partners gave him a taste of justice and physically beat him up—let’s just say he probably earned it. I’ve always hated him for some reason, and Jessica Rodriguez? Let’s just say she has the charm of a wet sock.

Anyway, here’s hoping Dr. Abe finds a new venture soon because it looks like these two grifters aren’t even remorseful in the slightest. Just an all-around embarrassment, really!

I log in, hit post, and stare at this blinking cursor that seems to taunt me with its incessant blinking—like a judgmental eye, waiting for me to say something profound. Spoiler alert: that’s not happening. So, brace yourself for what can only be described as a delightful torrent of bratty brain diarrhea. No attempt to tidy up these thoughts; consider this my hateful gift to you.

It feels utterly absurd, and perhaps a touch inadequate, that after my extended sabbatical from LiveJournal, I’ve chosen to write about Kris Aquino and Wheel of Fortune amidst the chaos of the past few weeks. But hey, let’s tune this circus up a notch.

Ah, 2007! What a delightful dumpster fire of a year. Here’s hoping 2008 will show me a modicum of mercy. 2007 was a year of endings—my personal version of an emotional buffet, and I was forced to adjust to a myriad of seismic shifts. Quite frankly, it’s been brutal, and I can barely keep my head above water.

Recently, Ed left for the States, lured by a job offer that practically sang to him. I’m left here, sorting through the chaos of my life, with plans to join him in three months. Well, technically in two months, but I won’t see him until early May. I’m not taking this lightly; this is the longest we’ve been apart, and let me tell you, adjusting has been a Herculean task. I wake up and suddenly find myself in a void! No one to rouse me from slumber, no one to anticipate when I get home, no one to hug or kiss. The longing is so intense, it feels like a physical ache! I’ve oscillated between tears and staring blankly at the wall. For the first few days, I was glued to my bed, struggling to concentrate on anything—my attention span has plummeted to that of a particularly distracted puppy. I’m utterly stuck.

This January, Ed and I vacated our apartment, and I’ve moved back to my mother’s nest. After more than three years of crafting a cozy home out of our one-bedroom love nest, it feels like I’ve been exiled. I miss everything—the kitchen where I cooked for him, the bathroom, the precious free Wi-Fi, the smell of cabinets that held our shared memories. I even miss those quiet moments on the couch and taking smoke breaks with Jedi the Dalmatian. Yes, it’s a backward move, but I couldn’t bear to keep the apartment; the thought alone would send me spiraling into a pit of despair. At least here, I can share a beer or two with my little brothers, which, let’s be honest, is a silver lining.

Long-distance relationships are the absolute worst. Webcams and phone calls? Sure, they’re a substitute, but let’s not kid ourselves—it’s nowhere near the real thing. I feel utterly helpless and ensnared in this tangled web of longing. Cue the dramatic music.

And now, I think I finally understand what this blinking cursor is trying to tell me. It’s whispering, “Wait.” It’s reminding me that our time will come, and it’s demanding a hefty dose of patience. I desperately want to embrace my inner adult about this, but those childish pangs of longing keep creeping in. So here I am, impatiently waiting for my life to kickstart again.

Ah, Wheel of Fortune. The quintessential game show that has entertained countless households all over the world with its simple premise and flashy spins. The Filipino franchise is here and lately, this beloved classic has been sullied by the rather disappointing hosting of Kris Aquino. Normally, I hold a certain affection for her charm—like a vintage wine that’s gone a bit sour—but watching her navigate this game is akin to witnessing a cat trying to swim. It’s painful for all involved.

As an avid Wheel of Fortune aficionado—yes, I’m that person—I find it utterly bewildering how Kris seems to have misplaced her common sense somewhere between the puzzle board and the spinning wheel. Watching her interact with the contestants is like watching her try to assemble IKEA furniture: it’s just not going to end well. It’s simply unacceptable for her to manipulate contestants’ strategies. I mean, these contestants are not wandering in blind. Must she steer them toward buying vowels or spinning based solely on her whims? Let them decide for themselves without judgement. It’s not just contrived—it’s downright unfair and disruptive to the playing field!

Take, for instance, the other day when Precious Lara Quigaman picked up a free spin. The excitement was palpable, like a kid on Christmas morning—until she landed on a lose-a-turn. But before the dust could settle, Kris hastily rushed to Jodi Sta. Maria without even bothering to ask Precious Lara if she wanted to use her free spin! It was as if Kris had taken Precious Lara’s agency, wrapped it in a pretty little bow, and tossed it into the abyss. Precious Lara never got her chance, and, predictably, Jodi stormed ahead to snag that puzzle—and the game, ultimately. It’s enough to make one tear their hair out!

What’s truly baffling is how Kris’s actions strip away the very essence of competition. Contestants should be allowed to strategize, to navigate their own paths, and to make their own decisions, regardless of whether those decisions involve vowels, consonants, or the occasional “I’ll take a wild guess.” But no—Kris seems hell-bent on playing the role of a misguided puppet master, tugging at strings that should remain unpulled. It’s as if she thinks she’s on some kind of reality show where she gets to decide who wins based on her whims rather than the contestants’ skills.

I’m diligently trying to overlook her inappropriate comments and quirky hosting style, but her bewildering approach to the game? That’s a bridge too far. In my effort to enjoy this lighthearted show, I find myself spiraling into a vortex of frustration. Watching Kris wield her power like a scepter instead of allowing the contestants to simply spin and solve is maddening.

And yet, here I am, pouring my heart out over a game show. Fucking absurd. I’m getting worked up over the nuances of a television program as if it’s the key to fixing my crumbling life! Meanwhile, I could be doing something far more productive—like finally tackling that overflowing list of to-do’s or attempting to master the art of nursing. But instead, I’m fixated on Kris’s baffling hosting choices. Perhaps I should take a step back, breathe, and remind myself that, in the grand scheme of things, none of this matters, and I am wasting my time. But then again, maybe I’ll never truly recover from the travesty that is Kris’s hosting. So here’s to hoping for the best—or at least a return to productivity!

We immediately began scouring the seabed with our feet, and Sheila bravely submerged her face in the murky water, eyes wide open. Meanwhile, I opted for the safer route—no need for saltwater stinging my vision. We searched with increasing desperation, knowing full well how hopeless it was. Not long after, a boat with six fishermen drifted by. I waved them over, and they kindly joined our search. But failure loomed; nobody could find the key. I offered to pay them for their trouble, but they graciously declined. After all, the keys were still missing and we were still in deep shit

And so, here we were: two tipsy adventurers, stranded at a less-than-ideal beach, contemplating the depths of our own incompetence. But hey, at least we had each other, a story worth telling, and a newfound appreciation for the phrase, “Always keep a spare key.” Who knew?

Desperate times called for desperate measures, so we turned to the locals for help. Word spread faster than the latest celebrity scandal. Within minutes, the entire strip of huts along the seashore was buzzing about our rather ludicrous predicament. We quickly found ourselves surrounded by fishermen and other well-meaning locals, each eager to lend a hand—or, at the very least, enjoy the spectacle of two hapless pseudo-adults floundering in their own misfortune. Despite the onlookers who seemed more interested in our misery than in solving our plight, we were genuinely grateful for any assistance.

Two valiant souls stepped forward, offering to use their fishnet to fish the key from the briny depths. We warned them that our swimming area was rather expansive, but their determination was commendable. After a few futile minutes of flailing about, we began to reconsider our options.

Option 1: The resort manager, who seemed to possess a heart larger than the ocean, proposed sending someone to the city to fetch a locksmith. Perhaps they could conjure a car key out of thin air, but no guarantees. Option 2: One of us could embark on a seven-hour round trip back to Manila for the duplicate key while the other sat guard over the car. Leaving it behind felt like inviting trouble, and we were already sticking out like sore thumbs—a fact that didn’t escape the notice of any potential thieves.

Given our less-than-brilliant circumstances, Option 1 became the obvious choice.

With a sympathetic nod, the manager dispatched a man on a fancy tricycle to fetch the locksmith. This was a long wait, and patience was not our strong suit. The weight of our predicament began to sink in. If the locksmith failed, we’d be forced to spend the night at Aroma—clearly a punishment far worse than our initial folly. Sheila was starting to unravel, while I, in my own special way, was handling the crisis beautifully. If by “handling” you mean a colorful array of profanity and blasphemy, then yes, I was a model of composure.

After what felt like an eternity—though it was only about an hour—we finally spotted the fancy tricycle rolling in, our potential savior inside: the locksmith. We explained our plight for what felt like the hundredth time. He seemed optimistic, and we couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope ignite within us.

With the confidence of a man who had surely faced worse challenges than a lockout, the locksmith set to work. Yank here, tug there, twitch, file, file, twiddle, tweak, file again. In less than an hour, he emerged victorious, having fashioned a new key from the ether itself. He unlocked the car and turned the ignition. It worked! An Aroma miracle, albeit a rather pricey one. The locksmith charged us handsomely, but at that point, we were just relieved to escape our absurd predicament. We were more than willing to throw money at the problem—even if it meant being slightly taken advantage of. Gratitude filled the air; he was thankful, we were thankful, and suddenly everyone was happy once again.

This time, I clutched the key like it was the Holy Grail. I tied it securely to the cord of my camera and wore it around like a bracelet, vowing to protect it with my life. Our trauma was shaken off, and we determined to reclaim our joy. So we did what any rational humans would do: we drank more, ate more, and happily splashed about in the questionable waters, as if we were seasoned pros. We found our escape—or rather, we forced it. Either way, we were free!

For a place with the corniest catchphrase ever, Aroma wasn’t half bad. I owe a debt of gratitude to the staff, especially the manager, the fishermen, the ever-curious locals, the tricycle driver, and, of course, the locksmith. They all helped us without asking for anything in return, which more than made up for the less-than-pleasant aspects of our stay. In true Aroma fashion, what a lovely bunch of people we met! I will remember them fondly.

And just when we thought our luck had turned, on our drive back to Manila, the MMDA pulled us over and issued a ticket for a color-coding violation. They say when it rains, it pours!

I’ve spent the past few months in a delightful cocktail of inebriation—mostly drunk and/or high, if we’re being honest. Sobriety has been as elusive as Jerry to Tom, of Tom and Jerry. Fortunately, I have a solid support system: Ed, my family, and my friends. What am I doing with my life? Honestly, who knows? And to be perfectly frank, I’m not sure I care. But let’s not wallow in my melodramatic coping strategies; that’s not the main event here.

The other night, Sheila and I found ourselves on yet another binge at Mogwai in Cubao Expo. Picture it: buckets of beer, sparkling repartee, and profound reflections on Jesse and Celine, punctuated by utterly pointless banter. You know the drill. After years of friendship, things can get—how shall I put it?—flat. Not boring, mind you, just flat. So, in true adventurous spirit, we decided to brainstorm ways to inject some excitement into the evening. The night was young, and so were we—at least in our minds. We’ve made questionable decisions before, like that one time we drunkenly boarded a provincial bus to Baguio on a school night. Sheila ended up puking her dinner all over herself, but oddly enough, I don’t remember the embarrassment. Perhaps it’s dissociative amnesia? I did learn in Psych class that our brains tend to forget the traumatic stuff. Sheila was also there when I impulsively got my first tattoo. Clearly, we bond over carelessness and questionable life choices.

After exhausting our options, we made a bold choice: let’s hit the beach! Because nothing screams “responsible adults” like a swim in the ocean at 5 in the morning. But the question remained: where? Ah, that was the million-peso question. We left Mogwai, a few drinks in, and found ourselves aimlessly driving. Inspired by the Eraserheads’ classic ‘Overdrive,’ we finally settled on Batangas. Off we went, southward! Our first pit stop was Coastal, where we promptly began the sobering process. It was then we realized Batangas is quite a trek, and given our earlier indulgences, we weren’t exactly in prime condition for such an epic journey. So we asked the ‘gasoline boys’ for recommendations. One of them cheerfully informed us that Cavite was only 2-3 hours away and had beaches. Beaches in Cavite? Who knew? Then again, The Philippines is an archipelago, so I probably should’ve known better. Rural yet logistically feasible, we set off for Cavite. Picture it: two tipsy twenty-somethings belting out Christmas carols with the windows down, wind in our hair, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster.

Not having a clear destination, we relied on the good graces of locals for directions. We weren’t picky; we just wanted to bury our toes in the sand, gaze at the sky, and let the salty sea kiss our skin. About two hours later, with the sun rising, we stumbled upon a place called ‘Aroma Beach Resort: Where Nice People Meet.’

Where Nice People Meet

After an arduous three weeks of hospital confinement, my stepdad has finally been granted his freedom. The odd twist in this saga? The so-called “best doctors” in the nation are still scratching their heads, utterly bewildered by his condition.

Final Diagnosis

Another Friday night has come and gone while I’m stuck in the hospital, pouring my heart into caring for my dad. Not that I’m complaining—far from it! I’m actually committed to this, but let’s be honest: I miss the sweet escape of alcohol and all the little indulgences that make life more bearable.

In other mildly entertaining news, my mother recently had a rather awkward run-in with her in-laws. It was one of those moments that made me proud to witness the complexities of family dynamics. My dad’s illness remains a medical mystery, and from what I can gather, the doctors are still flailing like blindfolded darts. To add to the chaos, one of my mother’s in-laws decided it would be a brilliant idea to invite a so-called faith healer to my dad’s room. Clearly, common sense took a backseat in that decision. Good intentions? Sure. Rational thought? Not so much.

For context, my mom and dad have dabbled in charismatic communities (cults, as I like to call them) over the years, but they haven’t attended church since my dad’s hair was still a natural shade of black. Had he known about the nonsense my mom was dealing with, I can only imagine he would have been less than pleased. I vividly recall one New Year’s Eve when my dad decided we should abandon the delightful tradition of sleeping under piles of cash—apparently, it clashed with his beliefs about rejecting meaningless rituals. Who knew that good luck could be considered a burden?

To avoid a family feud—and out of a misplaced sense of respect for their opinions—my mom reluctantly agreed to the in-laws’ little ritual, but only on her terms. They could chant their incantations and summon whatever spirits they wished, but there was one non-negotiable rule: no touching.

Honestly, I think it’s incredibly generous of her to entertain this ridiculous charade at all. Skin contact can make a world of difference! Just imagining the massage oils and who knows what other questionable materials they might use is enough to make my skin crawl. And given that no one has the slightest idea what’s actually wrong with my dad, it feels like a slap in the face to the medical professionals involved. So, yes, they can perform their little dance of desperation, but they better keep their hands to themselves.

Later that evening, an eerie-looking woman—who could easily star in a horror film—made her entrance outside my dad’s room. My mom and her in-laws rushed out to greet her, and in a moment of misguided enthusiasm, my mom offered her a low five. The woman then proceeded to explain her plan to put some sort of metal belt around my dad’s waist. Alarm bells rang in my mom’s mind; this was clearly a breach of their earlier agreement. She explained just how ludicrous this “procedure” would be, considering my dad couldn’t even get out of bed, let alone accommodate some magical metal belt.

After my mom expressed her concerns, the faith healer bitch—yes, I’m done with euphemisms—turned to the in-laws and declared, “It’s up to you if you don’t want me to help! He’ll never get better because someone’s put a spell on him!” The in-laws, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, kept pressuring my mom to let them proceed with their utterly pointless agenda. It was like watching a train wreck unfold.

In a moment of exasperation, my mom shouted in the quiet hospital hallway, “Who doesn’t want my husband to get better?! If there’s anyone here who wants him to recover, it’s me!” And with that, she left them all speechless. I couldn’t help but think how much more impactful it would have been if she’d added a few well-placed expletives. I can only imagine the dawning realization on the in-laws’ faces as they grasped how ridiculous they looked. They fell quiet, hopefully for good, while the faith healer bitch retreated in defeat. My mom returned to the room, victorious.

As things stand now, my father is making a remarkable recovery. He’s no longer in diapers, can make it to the toilet with a little assistance, and is eating better—though he still has a tendency to slip up from time to time. He’s regaining his strength and even throwing out witty one-liners to family members. The fever is gone, and the doctors say he’ll be going home soon. Of course, they still haven’t figured out exactly what’s wrong with him. But for now, we’re choosing to focus on the positives.

And now I understand why they say Bawal Magkasakit.

Two Saturdays ago, at my little brother’s birthday party, my dad asked me to massage his back with menthol camphor oil. Giving massages to my parents and my grandfather, Tata, is kind of my thing—my not-so-hidden talent, if you will. Dad claimed he was feeling under the weather, so I dutifully obliged. The Sunday that followed, he spiked a fever. He was too weak to attend Mass and had to skip our family dinner—that hardly ever happens. Mom, ever the pragmatist, called the family doctor for a consultation and was advised to administer Paracetamol to quell Dad’s fever. Spoiler alert: the medicine did nothing.

The next day, we carted him off to St. Luke’s Medical for a proper assessment. The staff ran through their usual routine—tests, pokes, and prods. His lab results were mostly normal, or so we were led to believe. But the fever? It was stubbornly persistent, and Dad was in considerable discomfort. The doctors decided his stay would need to be upgraded to inpatient status for further observation and evaluation—because who doesn’t love a good plot twist?

They tested him for Dengue, Typhoid fever, Malaria, Leptospirosis, and a laundry list of other illnesses, considering every possible factor. They outlined his recent activities, from his last meal to his international travels, and even his lifestyle choices. Negative for everything, of course. Classic.

Days rolled on, and the fever showed no signs of retreat. Alongside oral pills, he was injected with high doses of Paracetamol, but it was like trying to extinguish a wildfire with a garden hose. Broad-spectrum antibiotics joined the party, and Dad was pricked with needles incessantly. Blood cultures, ultrasounds, urine tests, CT scans, X-rays, spinal punctures—they checked everything, from his heart to his brain. “Fever with unknown cause,” the doctors declared, as if that was supposed to be comforting. This only intensified the frustration of everyone, particularly Mom.

I’ve been camping out in the hospital for over a week now. Ed and my brothers join me some nights, but mostly it’s just me and Mom taking turns watching over Dad. The view of concrete walls and parking lots is, shall we say, less than inspiring. The smell of bleach mingles with our perpetual takeout meals, and the harsh fluorescent lights could make even the sun envious. The ambiance of dread that permeates hospitals is palpable—calling this place depressing would be a gross understatement. Thank goodness for decent internet; otherwise, I’d be left to wallow in the gloom. YouTube and Kathy Griffin’s comedy have become my savior, true friends in these dark times. Without those welcome distractions, I’d be left to bear witness to my dad’s alarming decline.

Eating? Not really his thing anymore. The doctors suggested a nasogastric tube—yes, a long tube snaking through the nostrils to deliver nutrition straight to the stomach—but Dad flat-out refused. He’s lost so much strength he can hardly stand, let alone walk. The assertiveness in his voice has faded to a whisper; now you have to lean in just to catch his words. He needs to be fed, he has a catheter, and he sleeps around the clock. We’ve resorted to adult diapers, which he loathes, and it’s painful to witness his pride take a hit. Yet, somehow, he manages to smile and crack jokes, trying to lighten the mood, which only breaks my heart further. But I must cling to hope.

My entire family is a bundle of nerves. Mom, in particular, is struggling to cope. My younger sister, Dad’s unofficial favorite (don’t tell the rest of us), had to cut her vacation in the U.S. short to be with us. We get a steady stream of visitors, all wishing for Dad’s recovery. Gifts, flowers, and well-wishes flood in, a testament to the pillar he has been for so many. It’s surreal and disconcerting to watch that image dissolve in real time. He needs to get better. We need him to get better. I need him to get better. Dad, please, just get better.

I’ve been told that I’m hard to read, perhaps because I don’t like to smile. I don’t open up to people immediately. I’ve been described in many different ways. But for those who really know me, there’s one thing they would be certainly aware of; I am a die-hard Christina Aguilera fan.

I was 13 when I first heard Christina Aguilera’s ‘Genie in a Bottle.’ Since then, I have been a devoted fan. Her undeniable talent, her charm, and the way she handles adversity, all drew me in and made me love her obsessively. When she was incessantly compared to her contemporary, Britney Spears, I would go to war for her. I have since then matured and have learned to pick my battles. I have to admit though, Christina Aguilera is not the most likable person. She makes it difficult for people to like her. She’s offensive. She’s raunchy. Her sense of style has been the subject of negative discussions. Her taste has always been questioned. But for some reason, loving her was effortless to me. She is often criticized, but I only have deep love and admiration for her. I do love strong, powerful women.

Christina’s musical genius is the stuff legends are made of. I could listen to her for days on end, and never get tired. She even got me listening to her influences, artists ahead of my time that I wouldn’t have known about if it weren’t for her. And it’s quite an impressive list; Etta James, Otis Redding, Ray Charles, Madonna, Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Etta James,Aretha Franklin, Whitney Houston, and Mariah Carey. No wonder she turned out to be a true vocalist.

Her teenybopper persona was one I also immensely cherished. I learned all the lyrics to her debut album, of course. I immediately related to her introverted personality, and I understood what she was all about. As a grown adult woman, she decided to put her hands on the wheel and call the shots. Stripping down this inauthentic virginal identity invited controversy, sure, but it also brought along important conversations about a woman owning her sexuality, and having agency over her sexual expression. She endured so much misogynistic shit during this time, our society should be embarrassed. She’s doing it for herself, not for the male gaze, and I think that’s so powerful. I made an effort to be one of the first ones to get a copy of her sophomore album, ‘Stripped,’ of course. Although her music during that era featured slinky club grooves, and explicit content, she also had ballads and sang about her heartbreaks, and triumphs. Despite having a controversial image, critics always have a hard time attacking her talent. She is an artist, first and foremost. Her third and latest album, ‘Back to Basics,’ is so different from ‘Stripped,’ it gave me a whiplash. Continuing her genius, she released a record highlighting her powerful voice, and her amazing musicality, while remaining true to her message and her authentic self.

Tonight, I get to see her live, and in person! You can imagine how much I’m freaking out right now. I am so happy that she’s making a stop in Manila for her tour–we are more often overlooked by global superstars doing world tours such as herself. Christina Aguilera is a big part of the person I have become, and her music has not only saved me, it has become the soundtrack of my life. Oh my god. Is this real life? I might actually die tonight, I don’t know. If this is a dream, please never wake me up.

 

A few days ago, Ed and I ventured into the cinematic wonderland of ‘Transformers.’ I was quietly savoring my nachos when, lo and behold, the indomitable Vicki Belo—cosmetic surgeon to the stars—materialized out of thin air, cradling a boy who could have easily been her son. As she sashayed down the aisle, I thought, “This is just fantastic! How on earth am I supposed to concentrate on the movie now?” Determined not to let Vicki and her youthful companion derail my date night—an endeavor akin to herculean labor—I steeled myself. Sure, the age gap was glaring, but who am I to judge? Good for her!

What truly unsettled me was their behavior during the film. Now, I have nothing against a little public affection (PDA, for those in the know), but their antics were reminiscent of raucous teenagers. Granted, the boy might have actually been one, but since Vicki is practically royalty in certain social circles, I expected a smidge more decorum. There I was, trying to chew my nachos discreetly while Vicki and her boy-toy were engaged in what can only be described as a very public wrestling match. It was, to put it mildly, distracting. Eye-rolls were inevitable. I suppose it’s Vicki Belo’s world, and we’re just living in it.

Despite Vicki and her male companion nearly turning my cinematic experience into a circus, I genuinely enjoyed ‘Transformers.’ Born in the mid-Eighties, I was a young fan of the original animated series. My mother indulged my obsession with those nifty toys that transformed from cars to robots. I thought they were the epitome of cool. Over the years, my interest waned—perhaps ‘Jem and the Holograms’ and ‘Sailor Moon’ filled that nostalgic void. When I first saw the trailer for this latest installment, I was bracing myself for disappointment. Surprisingly, I found it delightfully entertaining. Here’s my review-reviewhan:

First off, the cars and trucks were utterly lovable. I sense a resurgence in vintage Chevrolet Camaro sales! Who knew you could imbue machines with such charm? Bumblebee, Optimus Prime, and Megatron were all brilliantly realized. Visually, the film was a feast for the eyes, with CGI that was nothing short of stellar. The plot was straightforward and amusing, yet engaging enough to keep my interest. The cast was also commendable; Shia LaBeouf was both endearing and relatable, making it easy to root for him. The actors playing his parents were memorable, and Megan Fox—my goodness—where did she come from? She’s hotter than a superstar!

Michael Bay deserves a round of applause for directing and producing this spectacle. His films are synonymous with action-packed entertainment, and I knew I was in for a thrilling ride. Bad Boys, Armageddon, Pearl Harbor—his filmography is a testament to his blockbuster prowess. The pacing kept me on the edge of my seat for most of the film. Honestly, I’m not sure why I ever thought ‘Transformers’ would be a colossal letdown; perhaps the idea of giant, talking alien robots seemed absurd as I grew older. Instead, it stirred up a delightful wave of nostalgia and rekindled the cherished memories of the cartoon series. Thank goodness Ed insisted we see it, as I was initially hesitant. I was wrong to judge it so hastily. After all, there’s more than meets the eye. 6.5/10—would recommend, just pray that a horny Vicki Belo doesn’t end up next to you!

Last night, I had a particularly bizarre dream. Picture this: I found myself in the Makati building of my very first job at PeopleSupport, just clocking out. I stepped into an elevator, only to be whisked away to what seemed like the interiors of Home and Beyond. For reasons that remain utterly baffling, I began shopping for window curtains. And then—poof! I woke up. Strange, right?

Today dawned with all the optimism of a rain-soaked Monday. After a mere three hours of sleep, I woke up feeling disoriented, parched, and absolutely starving. Ed had returned from work, so I naturally invited him to breakfast (my breakfast, his dinner). I was craving those glorious 7-Eleven Hot Hot Hot hotdogs and Spicy Seafood Cup Noodles. So, off we went in a tricycle to the 7-Eleven by MRT Cubao, our hearts full of appetizing hope and questionable choices.

But then, we got sidetracked by the alluring steam wafting from a carinderia next door, selling goto. It looked fucking mouthwatering, so we ditched our 7-Eleven plans like a bad habit. Oh, what a mistake that was! The goto turned out to be a gastronomic travesty—unseasoned, watered down, and utterly disappointing. We should’ve known better; 7-Eleven never lets you down.

As if we needed more validation of our poor choices, the patrons of the carinderia were staring at us like we were fucking extraterrestrial beings. I mean, Ed and I were decked out in our well-loved pambahay clothes, complete with holes, and slippers. What about that screamed “intruder”? Weird.

We exited shortly, leaving our food ambitions unfinished.

In other news, I’m still grappling with the eternal question of what the fuck to do with my life. Should I strive for financial gain, or should I plunge back into the depths of academia? Decisions, decisions. You know what? Fuck it. I think I’ll just go back to sleep.