Into the Darkness

It's dark and cold and you can see nothing but black and lines of white along the wall. Dust is all over the floor and there are piles of boxes, books, and paper everywhere. Insects of all kinds lurk in the corners and it's not surprising if one lands near you. No, I have not described to you my attic or basement. What I have recounted to you is my room.

When I was around five or six, my family relocated to Greenhills from San Juan. I found this strange since when we were still living in San Juan, I'd go to Greenhills for my preschool while when we were already at Greenhills, I'd go to Xavier School, which was near our old house in San Juan.

One of the best reasons for relocating was the fact that we each got to have our own rooms. Back in the "old house" as I'd call it, there were only three rooms reserved for us: one for my baby sister, one for my brother, and one for my parents. Here in the new house, rooms were not a problem. We even had enough space to have a guest room.

My room back then seemed quite enormous to me. The wall paper was white all over. The same could be said for the cabinets and the closets. In the center of the room was a queen-sized bed, a sofa, and a television. I'd usually jump from my bed to the sofa and back again. There was also a long desk with file drawers, all of which were connected to one side of the wall. A shelf would stand in the left portion of the room, showcasing not books but toys which I had acquired so far: robots, dinosaurs, and other cars. What was also a quirk was that my room had two other doors, one which led to my brother's room and the other to my parent's room.

Despite me having a room, I seldom slept in it, especially as I grew older. I'd usually spend my evenings at my parent's room, along with my sister. We'd all fit in the king-size bed, which also happened to be facing the large television set. I do remember sleeping in my room though, and at one time, I had a large mosquito net over the bed so that I couldn't be bitten by the insects.

Of course it would soon all be taken away from me. A few years later after moving in, my grandmother acquired cancer and the doctor said she had three months to live. Since her condition was critical, father wanted to give her the best living conditions. She was brought to our house to live. I was taken out of my room and forced to sleep with my parents every night. Soon, I was sharing rooms with a lot of people: my brother, my grandmother, and my parents. My toys remained in the room while my clothes and toiletries went to my brother's room. Some of my books were put into my parent's room where I'd read them there before I sleep.

My grandmother lived with us for three years before she died. I remember my mother complaining to her friends that she was supposed to be with us for only three months yet it extended to three years. Never underestimate the will of a person to live. I remember during my grandmother's birthday when me and my sister knocked on the door, entered, and gave grandma some sampaguitas. It was hung beside her bed where everyone could see it. Two days later, I came by and saw that it was already rotten. It was soon removed.

When grandmother died, my grandfather and auntie would move in. The two would be switching between our house and my uncle's house, which was located in Alabang. For the first half of the month, grandfather would be living in my room. For the second half, it would be auntie. This would go on for five to six years and soon, it was only my grandfather who was living with us.

And then in May of 2001, grandfather suffered a heart attack. He died, causing grief to the family. When I entered my room then, it was quite different. My shelves were no longer stacked with toys. There were a lot of picture frames in the room. There was even new furniture. The place also smelled different. The bathroom was also filled with boxes, a storehouse rather than a sanitary locale.

The room was refurnished for a few months. My mom wanted to redo the entire place. She asked me what kind of wallpaper I wanted. I told her black. She complained and told me to choose another color or theme. I still told her I wanted black. She found it weird.

"Why bother asking me if you're just not going to agree to my decision? It is going to be my room, after all." I said.

Since they couldn't find a wallpaper that was entirely black, I had to settle for one with a black background and narrow white bars (think of it resembling a jail). My family was stupefied that I chose such a scheme. My brother was laughing at me and even showed his guests at how ridiculous it seemed.

By the time I moved into the room, things had changed again. Not only was the wallpaper different from when I was a child but the bed was gone. Instead, I just had the couch with a different cover. There was a big space in the middle which gave me room to maneuver. I restructured the contents of my shelves and soon had my books lined up.

I had my windows sealed with tape since insects were coming in through them. I was only partially successful as some creatures still manage to get it despite my best efforts. I had the boxes removed from the bathroom and made it livable again. Still, there were cracks in the sink and an army of ants would come out in the night. I had to learn to shut the lid of my toothpaste unless I wanted them to be contaminated by ants.

A month or so later, my parents would complain that my room was disorganized and dirty. I told them not to bother me since it was, after all, my room and that it was their fault it was disorganized in the first place. You see when I still had the room when I was a child, I was already requesting shelves from my parents. At the time, they'd just laugh and not take it seriously. Now, when I told them I needed new shelves, they immediately bought me one. Soon, my room was more organized than usual.

My friends who came into my room had several reactions. One thought that it was cool. Another felt that the room was too hot. Others became dizzy, and some claimed that the walls were moving.

For all the dirtiness in my room, I can be proud of my bookshelf. It's lined with books that many people would envy. Rows and rows of books would fill the space, and these books were not something I inherited from my parents. Instead, they were bought with my own money throughout the years.

I really like the room now. It "feels" like me. My parents complain about it, just like everything else about my life. My friends find it fascinating and eccentric, just like me. As for me, I've never felt more comfortable, or more unique.

Crash and Burn

That's how I describe my relationships with people. At one moment, I'm like a brother to them. At another, I could never be more despised.

As I've mentioned in some of my earlier entries, I'm not a person that has close friends. If I want to go out, I don't have someone I can just call and invite out. I don't even have anyone I can just call and talk to them about what happened during the day. If there's anyone I'm often seen with, it's the invisible man. Whenever I pass by someone in the mall or in school, the typical question is "who are you with?" I end up either shrugging or telling them that I'm with no one. Some of them are just shocked, especially when I run into them in a mall.

That's not to say I don't have any friends. In fact, I have a lot of them. I know most, if not everyone, from my batch in high school at least by face, if not by name. I'm also involved in a lot of mailing lists and online societies and it's fun to run into them in real life. In school, it's no exaggeration if I say I know at least someone from each course in my batch. And I manage to make friends with my classmates, no matter what the subject.

Of course this wasn't always the case. When I was in grade school, I dropped from one of the most popular people in my class to one of the most disgusted. For one thing, I suddenly alienated myself from my existing friends, mainly because I realized they were bullies and quite selfish. One of my friends would hog the Super Famicom console whenever he'd sleepover, causing my other friends to make complaints. There's also the fact that I suddenly started wearing glasses and started getting frequent colds. At that point, a lot of people avoided me and I often had trouble finding a group during group activities.

At several points in my life, I felt very lonely. I'd find myself in the house, alone with nothing but the computer, my books, and the television set. It was all a waste, it seemed to me, if there was no one I could share it with. I had no one to talk to, no one to play with, and most of all, no one to go out with. This caused me to dwell on my solitude and I wanted to change it. I was eager to make friends. Too eager, perhaps.

In high school, I was terribly alone. At least in grade school, I had a set of friends I could turn to. During that time, my former friends were scattered among seven different sections. The one friend who was my classmate found himself a new group and left me out. In part, this was a good thing as I was forced to meet new people and make new friends. Before grade school, I barely knew anyone outside my section. In high school, I managed to acquaint myself with a lot of people from my batch. But alas, still no best friend.

In fourth year, I fell in love. Her name was Erin and I got to know her via her personality from the Internet. When I first saw her, her looks didn't strike me but after getting to know her, I realized personality was something more than mere physical beauty could match. I courted her, unknowingly of course. I started wearing contact lenses. I loaned her my books and CDs. I tried to meet her as much as possible after classes. I gave her gifts for no reason at all. And she disliked me for all that. I suspected as much and eventually, I left her alone and got over her.

During the first few weeks of college, I met Erin's best friend, Steph. She was everything I could ever want: independent, hardworking, smart, and most of all, loved reading books. It reminded me a lot of Erin yet surprisingly different. I fell in love with her too, although gradually since I was doubting my emotions. After all, I was making sure I loved Steph for who she is rather than just a copy of Erin. Unknowingly as well, I was courting Steph. I was with her everyday, accompanying her to the bus station and talking to her. After which, we'd email each other when we got home. There's also the books I loaned her and the CDs I'd lend her. It was déjà vu.

As expected, Steph soon started to avoid me, and eventually, got mad at me. This all happened after three weeks of being together. Of course what didn't cross everyone's mind at the time is that I was considering Steph as a best friend as well as a potential girlfriend. If the latter didn't work out, the former would suit me just fine. But like most things in life, your best intentions can hurt people the worst.

A year later, I met Lea, the elder sister of one of my friends. She was an Eng. Lit. graduate and had a keen interest in anime. While she didn't like the fantasy books I read, she did like some fantasy, as well as science-fiction. No, I did not consider her as a love interest, but wanted her as a friend. Soon, I was talking quite often with her on the phone. She became my confidant and I felt that I had the best friend I never had.

Except she didn't feel that way about my phone calls. She felt it was a burden to her rather than a pleasure. I didn't realize this until she emailed me a month later, after not talking to each other for quite some time. My hopes went down the drain. But it helped me realize what was wrong.

I was too overzealous in my pursuit of a best friend. I once told people that the more people got to know me, the more they'd dislike me. This is true because often, I'm too pushy. The people who became angry at me like my crushes and Lea complain that I expect too much from them, that I don't give them space. And that's true. My relationships with them tend to "crash and burn". I'm quick to befriend them, we get close in a short span of time, and things come tumbling down.

Of course in all scenarios, people didn't tell me what was wrong until it was too late. I did tell them that to tell me as soon as possible that if they felt there was something discomforting about me, they should tell me. But they didn't do that and instead, kept it to themselves until they could hold it no longer. It's easy to blame them. But I know I am responsible as well. I just can't rely on people telling me what I should do or how people feel. I should have been more sensitive.

This also probably happened because the people I were trying to befriending were girls. Not top sound chauvinistic or anything but I find that most girls tend to be evasive, while I as a guy then to be confrontational. I like to face my problems head on. A lot of girls I know tend to either avoid the problem or not talk about it instead of facing it. I guess we all cope in different ways.

Alas, while there is life, there is still hope. I'm picking up the pieces, trying to renew bonds that have been broken. I'm grateful I'm still in speaking terms with Erin and Steph. Perhaps the issue between Lea and me will be solved some day. But now, I'm less aggressive and try to give people time. It's just sad to know that in order to show people that you care, sometimes, you have not to care. Nothing pains me more than to see a friend in need yet you can't help them since it might hurt their pride or they might think worse of you. But I've learned to trust, trust that my friends will cope, and trust that they'll see the itty-bit of goodness in me.

The Hitchhiker's Guide to Katipunan

I never realized I'd have practical use for social skills until I entered college. Unlike my grade school and high school which was a walk away from home, Ateneo is actually quite a distance. Also, because I was too lazy to get a sticker for our car, I had to rely on carpools to get home from school.

The start of my freshman year was simple. I'd hitch along with my childhood friend, Fort, since we belonged to the same block and head identical schedules. This is due to the fact that we enrolled at the same time and even got late at the same time.

For the first few weeks, this arrangement was fine, despite the fact that I'd have to wake up really early to get to his house, and had to come home late since I was getting picked up from his house, which was in Pasig. Fort and I were together often, along with Therese, the girlfriend of John, a mutual friend.

And then, I stopped hitching with Fort. I could blame it on several reasons. For one thing, Therese was paying too much attention to Fort, and I was the person who introduced them. On one hand, I could say that Therese was starting to cheat on John. On another, I could say I was jealous of Fort. Then there's also the fact that I get home quite late because I hitch with Fort. I barely have two hours of free time left on my hands. But perhaps what did it was the fact that I was interested in accompanying Steph, my crush, to the bus stop and that happened an hour after Fort leaves Ateneo.

Everyday for three weeks, I'd be accompanying Steph to the bus stop, after which, I'd start worrying. How do I get home? For someone who's been sheltered most of his life, commuting was a concept known to me. The places where I should get down, however, were alien. I knew that to get home, I should take a jeep from Katipunan to Cubao and from Cubao to Ortigas. Of course I didn't know where Cubao so if I boarded a jeep, it might pass through Cubao several times and I would never know it. I postponed the idea of commuting while there are other alternatives.

The first thing I did when I got back to school was look for familiar faces. Since a lot of my batchmates got accepted into Ateneo and a number of them live near my place, that's where I started looking. This usually involved calling them up and asking for their schedule, but for most of my freshman year, it involved sitting and a lot of waiting at the parking lot.

My one consolation throughout all this is that I got to see a lot of people, met a lot of people, and befriended a lot of people.

Of course I don't always hitch with people to get home. I have dentist appointments on Thursday afternoons so I have my driver pick me up on those days. Of course since he doesn't have a car sticker, he parks at the street opposite Ateneo in one of the fast food outlets.

One day though, he forgot to pick me up. I was furiously mad and told him not to bother picking him up. I'd figure out a way to get home. Of course boasting was easier than actually doing. The time was 3:30 pm. I found a carpool but he was going home at 7:30 pm. I didn't care to wait those extra hours. At 5 pm, I left school and started to walk home.

At this point, some people would say why couldn't I just commute. As I said before, I didn't know where Cubao was. This walking experience proved to be an enlightening one. Some might argue that I should have taken a taxi. Taxis cost a lot of money. They're a last resort and it wasn't exactly raining at the time so I didn't need last resorts.

It should have been an easy walk if it weren't for the fact that I turned at P. Tuazon instead of Boni Serrano. I was walking straight for forty five minutes although it seemed like hours. Halfway through, I got a call from my friend asking me if I still wanted to hitch since he got off early. The time was 5:45 pm. I was halfway to my house. I told him my current location.

I continued walking until I reached EDSA. I should have turned right so that I could board the MRT but instead, I headed left, towards the direction of my house. Ten minutes away from my home, mom starts to call asking where I am. I told her I was near. By 6:20 pm, I got home. I decided that that event would never happen again.

Suffice to say, I learned where Cubao was, along with Ali Mall and SM. Since I did accompany Steph to the bus stops, I knew where I could get a ride. In the event that I couldn't find a carpool early enough for me, I started commuting home. There was also those trips to Cubao and back when I was scavenging for a book for Steph and I suspected that it was available in the Cubao branch of National Bookstore.

The second semester of my first year had a less "spontaneous" feel to my carpooling. Instead of waiting by the parking lot, not knowing who and when my ride will pass by, I started hounding for people's schedules. I was able to arrange carpools ahead of time so I didn't run the risk of having to commute or walk home. One interesting account was Ambrosio. I'd hang out outside his classroom just before he got dismissed. Because of that, I'd meet some of his classmates. Of course by this time, I already knew a lot of people.

My second year proved to be quite difficult in finding a carpool, mainly because I got dismissed later and quite a number of my former schoolmates went abroad. My most reliable carpool, Ambrosio, was one of them. However, it was this year that I acquired a gaming group and my GM (Game Master) happened to drive a car and passed by EDSA. What happened was that most of his players would be hitching with him going home, me included.

At this point, I was too dependent on carpooling and stopped commuting altogether. I found out how out of place I was when last summer, I had to commute home from Ateneo. The destination was supposedly Cubao but I ended up in SM Centerpoint. At that point, I took a taxi.

Right now, I'm back to hitching a ride with Fort going home. And strangely enough, I occasionally get to accompany Steph to the bus stop on Wednesdays. It's really strange at how it all ended up like this. Makes me wonder if God's playing a cruel joke on me.

Here's something I wrote for my nonfiction class about my childhood, which I'll submit today.

Always Prepared

Several days had passed since I attended my first day in grade school. I was adjusting to the new environment. My bag was twice as heavy. We had desks to put our books in. We were no longer given the luxury of a half day. I was at school from morning until afternoon, eating my lunch at the cafeteria's long, green tables. It was a new experience for me.

Being in grade school meant you had to take up a lot of subjects: Reading, Language, Math, Science. While I liked my teachers, the same can't be said for my subjects. I'd spend hours perfecting my letter "a" for Language and memorizing numbers for Math. There was one thing I looked forward to though. That was the clubs. Once a week, we were given the opportunity to participate in a non-academic activity. Unlike my subjects which were spoon-fed, clubs were something you chose, provided your parents gave you consent.

We were given a list of the available clubs in two stapled sheets of paper. While the list was long, only a few were really available to us since the other clubs were restricted to the upper batches. Some of my classmates had their parents decide what club they'd join. As for me, I was never to waste an opportunity to exercise my freedom.

I decided to join the Kab Scouts. It was something that appealed to me. Camping out in the wilderness, learning how to survive on your own, creating fire from a pair of sticks. These were the thoughts that entered my mind when I first saw it.

I didn't think my parents would mind if I enlisted in that club. Sure enough, my parents signed the form without taking a second glance. Now all I had to do was attend the meeting.

Our moderator was a man in his twenties, or at least it seemed to me. He was full of energy and a sense of responsibility emanated from him. Perhaps it was because of the uniform: yellow shirts, green socks, laced shoes, a tied scarf on the neck. He told us with confidence what we could expect from the club.

I've forgotten what his exact statements were but there were two statements that sums up what being a Kab Scout meant.

"A Kab Scout is always prepared," was one.

"A Kab Scout keeps his promises. That's why we have Scout's Honor. The reason you are raising your three fingers is this. The top most represents God. The second represents others. The last one represents you. You should put God above all else, others second, and self last. That is the code by which a Kab Scout lives."

Those two ideologies were drilled into us. Not a meeting passed without us standing in attention and performing the rite of Scout's Honor. But a more subtle reinforcement was used to ingrain in us the concept of always being prepared.

After our first meeting, we were required to purchase and wear our uniform. It composed of a yellow shirt, a yellow scarf, a Tamaraw totem to hold the scarf, a belt, and green socks. My parents were only too happy to give me the check so that I could buy a set.

Every time we met, we were expected to wear the uniform. Not one article should be missing. We were given demerits if that happened. On the morning of our club meeting, I'd set aside my usual white polo in favor of my Kab Scout uniform. I made sure I lacked nothing. My parents even thought to take a picture of me while in uniform.

I attended the meetings regularly. I had perfect attendance, if I'm not mistaken. We were taught a lot of practical stuff. I didn't get the chance to make a fire out of two wooden sticks but I did learn how to tie knots and how to use tools. We were also reminded of the safety precautions needed to be done in every venture, from cooking to travelling. We had games to make remembering easy. For knot-tying, we were divided into groups and the group that could tie and untie the knot quickest won. There was also the message relay game which tested our memory and the accuracy of our messages.

One memorable moment was when the teacher taught me how to tie my shoelaces during my birthday. No matter how much I tried, I never did get the knack for tying shoelaces. Instead, I often wore leather shoes that didn't have shoelaces. That probably explains why I didn't excel in tying knots either.

Before the year ended, we had large group activity to certify us as official Kab Scouts. It was a sleepover camp and that caught our attention. We were to camp for one evening and after which, an awarding ceremony would be held. I really wished that we could have done it outdoors but the best that the moderator could do was the football field of our school. It was far from a scenic view since instead of trees, we saw tall buildings. We'd also hear the cars passing by and honking from time to time.

It began on a Friday afternoon and we set up camp as soon as it hit 5 pm. Each of us was required to sleep with a partner and the same partner would accompany us wherever we went, whether it was to the bathroom or to sleep.

During the evening, a bonfire was made and everyone got out their treats. I took out some marshmallows and barbecue sticks and started roasting them. My partner roasted his too close to the fire and the marshmallows started to burn. It was quickly put out and we marveled at the blackness the marshmallow had on one side. My partner quickly ate it and exclaimed that it was delicious.

When it was getting quite dark, we started gazing at the sky and saw the stars despite all the buildings. Some of us started a ghost hunt while others went to bed. I had the misfortune of accidentally peeing in my tent, which caused my partner to panic and quickly got out of their tent. He decided to sleep with another group and I was left alone in my tent. During this time, I heard all the other boys who weren't ready to sleep yet, playing with their flashlights and pointing it at other people's tents.

Morning finally came and we had a new set of activities. Despite all the activity from the previous night, we were still expected to assemble in complete uniform. After several games, we had lunch and prepared for the awarding ceremony.

A lot of parents dropped by to see their children stand on the stage and bring them home afterward. My parents were no different. It was strange as they were formally dressed while I was in my Kab Scout uniform. Dad had a tie and long sleeves, and mom had all her makeup. I, on the other hand, was a bit muddy but was nonetheless in complete uniform. I didn't want anything other than to get out of my clothes then and take a long bath.

Soon, we were formally acknowledged as Kab Scouts and to signify this, given new totems. I gave mine to mom and then assembled to take a pledge with the Scout's Honor.

I came home that day exhausted. Eventually, I lost the totem that was given to us during that ceremony but I managed to keep the original Tamaraw one. I joined Kab Scouts for one more year but failed to enlist in the year after that. There were two things I never forgot though: Scout's Honor, and that a Scout is always prepared.

When Death Becomes Me

I wanted to write something short and the first thing that came to mind was how I conquered my acrophobia. The answer to that was that I didn't need to. I was suicidal, so I had nothing to fear from my fear.

I've often contemplated the idea of suicide. I did so several times when I was depressed over my crush, but I didn't take it too seriously since I had come to terms with death by then. I knew death would not solve anything, and that life gave me opportunities. However, given the chance, I'd easily surrender my life in exchange for someone else's. If there was a hostage situation, I'd willingly volunteer to be a hostage if only to deprive them of the chance to acquire one of my friends as a hostage.

My true contemplation of death occurred when I was eight. I was smart enough to realize then that my life would often be filled with sadness and solitude. I wanted to end it all, free myself of all responsibility or care. The question was, how do I do it?

I knew holding my breath wouldn't work. I'd only end up unconscious and start breathing again. Besides, suffocating to death wasn't something I cherished. I already had colds that kept me from breathing. Going out that way wasn't pleasant. That ruled out death by drowning and death by strangling.

Jumping to my death seemed natural since I did have acrophobia. However, there were stories of people surviving high jumps. People recommended that if you were to leap to your doom, it should be done on low levels, like three stories. The problem was that I can survive a one story jump without getting severely injured. I'd probably survive a three-story fall. So how high should it be? If I jump from a building too high, I might also survive. Ending up lame for the rest of my life wasn't something I wanted.

In television, people usually slit their veins if they want to die. If you do it the wrong way, it can be very painful. I was no expert in the art of committing suicide? I mean, who is? You only get one chance. Besides, I had a feeling our kitchen knives weren't sharp enough.

Shooting my brains out seemed tempting. Of course there were two problems. One, where do I get a gun? Second, I don't think I had enough physical strength to pull the trigger. I mean there was this amusement park when I was in the US and there was this game when you had to fight the computer in a quick draw. My aim was good but my trigger finger wasn't. I could barely fire it with two hands, and that was a simulation. How much more with an actual gun? I don't think anyone would volunteer to shoot the gun at my head for me.

At this point, only drug overdose seemed to be the only pleasant way to die. Again, I was encountered with a few problems. First off, where do I get the drugs that'll kill me? Second, I just can't overdose on certain drugs. For all I know, I'll just end up with a stomach ache. What I needed was a lethal drug, poisonous to people yet soothing and comforting. No way would an eight-year old be able to acquire something like that.

There was also the "slit my own throat" option but I realized I just didn't have the courage to do so. Maybe if someone else did it but I just couldn't find the strength to do it myself. Besides, I knew my last actions were to grasp for life. I may want to die but my body doesn't. Committing suicide wasn't working out for me.

After a lot of deliberation, I decided that killing myself wasn't worth it. Whatever problems I might have, having life means that there's always a way to solve them or evade them. At the very least, I'm open to opportunities if I live. When I'm dead, I won't feel anything, much less aspire to anything. Death would be a waste.

And so, that was how I staved off death for the next several years. Suicidal thoughts come and go but that experience made me realize how much I really wanted to live, and how I'll always find the strength to somehow cling to life. Besides, if I weren't alive today, I wouldn't have met all the great people I now know

The Not-So-Common Cold

I was going to write something entirely different today, but like most things in my life, my cold seems to interfere with matters.

To begin with, my family's health isn't something one should be proud of. My father has been having breathing problems even before I was born. Even now, he refuses to see a doctor, mainly because he believes that he's going to die anyway. My mother's side of the family suffers from diabetes. Strangely enough, I don't think we were afflicted with the disease.

When I was young, I got sick easily, mainly because of my frail immune system, which is due in part to my parents. When I was a babe, they rarely kept me out of the crib and never exposed me to dust. Now, one sniff of the stuff and I start sneezing. Blame my parents for their over-protectiveness. It comes to haunt me now.

The fact that I'm as skinny as a skeleton doesn't help either. Again, this can be attributed to my parents and their excess of concern. When I was four, I appeared to eat little from my plate. The maids and my parents would tell me to eat more and more. I told them I was already full but they refused to believe it. They made me eat more food, more than I could handle. And then I vomited. Of course this would go on three to four times in a week. Did this stop my parents? No... it only reinforced their sensibilities to try to stuff as much food as they can in me. My picture when I was four and when I was five were drastic. I was still chubby in the former. I was quite skinny in the latter. Because of my lack of fat, I quickly got cold. Heat, on the other hand, was something I barely felt, which is probably why I like going out in the hot, sunny afternoons.

In nursery, I was known for two things: my ability to sneeze often, and my propensity to cough out phlegm. I was always with a hankie, and with good reason. The moment I come to school without one is the moment I finish a roll of tissue paper in one day.

Grade school was no different, except that I was able to use my phlegm as a defense mechanism against bullies. It was a simple concept: you come near me, I spit at you. It was gross but it kept me from receiving a lot of bruises.

Of course my "cold attacks" were prone to happen more at home than at school. Since my parents rarely copulate, me and my sister were sleeping in our parent's room. Atop the king size bed was my sister, my mom, and then me. My dad was sleeping on a cushion below my sis. This should have clued me in on how dysfunctional the relationship my parents have with each other, but that's another story. Below the bed though was the carpet, and carpet tend to contain a lot of stuff I'd rather not say. In addition to that, the air conditioner was to my right. I don't like the cold. To me, hell would be a frozen wasteland. I started having colds every night.

My parents sometimes shut off the air conditioner when my cold becomes severe (i.e. I still can't breathe and it's already 1 am) but that was the exception rather than the norm. On the good side of things, my cold was limited to me and it wasn't contagious. That's why my parents still keep me in their room every night and why I still have classmates.

Mom tried giving me antibiotics but that was only a temporary answer. For one, it took several hours to take effect. For another, the effect lasted around an hour. For the rest of my life, I'd have a tower beside my pillow so that I can sneeze into it, much like I do with a handkerchief. If I didn't, our tissue bills would soar as high as Mount Everest.

Of course the diagnosis of the doctor was strange. For one thing, my nose was crooked. He asked me if I was hit by someone on the nose. I told him I couldn't recall any event, especially not one recently. He then told me that one hole was larger than the other, and it was due to the fact that the middle bone was sliding more to one side. The second strange diagnosis is that I was allergic to antibiotics. He said that it would provide only a temporary relief and would make the next attack more severe. Even as early as four, mom was leading me to self-destruction.

For quite some time, I was treated with the most bizarre medical treatments. One was the device that plunged the medicine directly into my nostrils. I had to put the device into one of my edifices and press it. A strange, foul air would go in and I'd be screaming for fresh air. And then I had to do it again, this time on the other hole. Did it work? After a year or so, I threw away the damn thing.

Since my parents didn't let me sleep in another room, I was stuck with their bedroom. They did install an air purifier which worked for the first few weeks but managed to get clogged up by dirt often. We later bought a newer model but the same thing happened. I guess American filters just can't survive Philippine atmosphere.

Sometimes, it was getting too severe that I'd sleep at 3 am only to wake up at 6 am to be ready for school. And this happened on a regular basis. What I mean by a regular basis is every week. If I was lucky, I'd sleep on the sofa and my parents would stop pestering me. I told them that what I needed was to be away from their room with the carpet and the air conditioner. They didn't listen. Instead, they sent me to another doctor. A Chinese one.

What Western medicine didn't find out, Eastern practice did. I underwent another strange procedure wherein the doctor made several dots on my forearm and placed different chemicals on them. It was then exposed to the light and an hour later, some of those dots became rashes. Thus I found out my allergies.

Naturally, I was allergic to dust. No surprise there. I was also allergic to cockroaches. It surprised me but not as surprising as the next revelation. I was allergic to chocolate!!! Before I sleep, I'd usually take a pack of Swiss Chocolate with Marshmallows and drink it. No wonder most of my attacks happen in the evening.

For a period of two months, I was taking injections every week. My driver and maid would bring me to the emergency room of Cardinal Santos (because that was where you could get injections) every Wednesday, pay the nurse the P30 fee, and take the shot. Two months later, I was taking injections once every two weeks. After that, once every month. And now, this is why I am not afraid of disposable injections. The big needles still scare me, especially once when I had to take a blood test. The only good thing I got from these injections is that sometimes, the pain was too much that I wasn't forced to play the piano. I'd say that I couldn't use my right arm and the lessons would be called off.

After all those injections and refraining from eating chocolate, my situation only got alleviated a bit. I still had colds on a regular basis and I was having trouble breathing often. I knew at this point, if there's anyone who's going to save me, it would be me. Not my parents, not the doctors, but me. I took matters into my own hands.

First, I requested to be relocated to the guest room. For one thing, there's a plant there, so I'm sure I'm getting oxygen. Second, the room doesn't have a carpet. Third, I don't need to turn on the air conditioner for the sake of my parents. Things became better as my colds came less frequent and I'd have "big attacks" once every three weeks. For a guy who got them on a regular basis, once every three weeks was a great relief. And not too soon as well since I was around grade seven at that time. I needed all the sleep I could get.

Second thing I did was get into shape. No, I did not lift weights but concentrated on cardiovascular exercises. In my case, it meant walking. Since my parents were overprotective of me, they didn't allow me to walk to school nor come home from school even though it's only three kilometers away. It's actually quite safer than it seems despite the rampant kidnappings going on. For one thing, I had to walk through several exclusive villages, and not just anyone could enter those places. For another, with the way I looked, I was the last person a kidnapper would think of abducting.

While I didn't get to walk to school, I did manage them to allow me to walk to the mall, which was one kilometer away. Slowly, I started getting fit. And slowly, my colds were decreasing in frequency. By the time I was third year high school, I was able to walk home from school. At this point, the stronger cold attacks happened once every two months. What nine years of medicine couldn't do, a year of exercise cured.

Nowadays, walking or running is the favored mode of transportation. People are surprised at the lengths I'm able to cross. Little do they realize it's more for therapy rather than masochism. And with my thin body, Philippine heat hardly fazes me.

When I get a cold these days, it's really worth noticing. I still carry a handkerchief and keep a towel by my bedside every time since I'll never get rid of the phlegm, but a cold is something that seldom occurs. The best thing of all, I don't rely on medicine for treatment. And I'm able to partake in a little chocolate from time to time.

The Devil's Game

A lot of people tend to overreact, especially when it comes to the games their "children" play. I'm not an evil person yet a lot of the games I've played have been considered "Satanic" or "tools of the devil" by many people who claim positions in authority. Just goes to show how close minded some people are, ready to point fingers without doing appropriate research.

Perhaps the most controversial game I've played is the Role Playing Game (RPG) called Dungeons & Dragons (D&D). Some people say the game is evil and is a means demons use to possess people. That's hardly the case. They also say that the game has fanatics who commit suicide and are anti-social. Perhaps that's true to a point but those are the exceptions rather than the norm. Most hobbies have fans who act weird and act with so much zeal that they base their entire life on that particular hobby. People just tend to magnify the darker side of things when it comes to D&D.

D&D is far from demonic. It's really about role-play, acting in character. The setting of the game is medieval fantasy where you play heroes and heroines who combat evil and slay dragons (hopefully). It actually started the entire RPG genre, which would later be adapted into games for the computer. To those who've played games like Diablo, Final Fantasy, Might and Magic, and Ultima, the combat system of these games were most likely derived from D&D. D&D itself has its roots in war gaming, and war gaming has its roots in chess. While the game is guilty of violence (and what game isn't to a certain extent?), it is far from being "Satanic". In fact, you play characters that slay demons and other creatures from Tolkien-lore.

Of course some people might claim the game uses magic and it says in the Bible that magic is the work of evil. Then again, there are also people that brand Harry Potter as works of the devil. Most fantasy settings use a magic system but it is never really taken seriously. You don't see us gamers chanting words of incantation and drawing pentagrams out in the football field. We don't look for ridiculous spell components like guano and sulfur and suddenly shout "fireball!" at people we come across. We are in touch with reality (or at least most of us are). We went to school when we were kids and we keep a day job. D&D is just a game and we are fully aware of it.

If anything, D&D, and other pen and paper RPGs, enable people to bond to together. It's an opportunity for a group of friends to engage in an activity together. Some play basketball; we play D&D. My friends and I usually schedule a particular day to play the game. We bring all our stuff like pencils and die (the plural of dice) and go to a friend's house or a public place if that's not possible. More often than not, the place is well lighted and well ventilated. If the Dungeon Master (DM), the one who organizes the game, wants to have a particular mood, the place might be dim and there might even be candles in the place. No, it's not an evil rite but the background of our game, so that us players can have a better feel for it and prep our imagination. If the DM is ambitious, background music is present.

Unlike some hobbies, playing D&D is an exercise in imagination. First off, the one who is acting DM must plan out every session. He must think of plots and character hooks, monsters and dungeons players might encounter, and appropriate descriptions. This isn't something you come up in the next few minutes. It takes long hours of careful planning. Second, the players must take their time to visualize what their DM is telling them during a game. It's not something clearly presented to you like television or theater. It's much like listening to radio wherein a familiar voice tries to depict a scene the best way he can using only words and the sound of his voice. Third, even the characters players play have a distinct personality. You just can't act like this and that. You have to stick to the role and attitude you created for your character. For example, I might be playing a half-orc barbarian who loves to slay evil monsters. I'm also impulsive and not exactly known for my charisma or intelligence. I can't suddenly come up with a detailed plan during the game and explain it to each and every group member. Instead, I'm most likely to charge into battle without heeding what others have yet to say. Also, the history for my character needs a lot of thought unless I want to fall into stereotypes. Playing any RPG involves a lot of thinking and a stretch of the imagination.

I'll now move on to the next "Satanic" game I've played, Magic: The Gathering (M:TG or Magic). Magic is the father of Collectible Card Games (CCGs) and has been recently branded by a local TV station as "evil". They claim people who play it get possessed and start acting weird. I for the most part have been acting weird before I played RPGs or CCGs. As for possession, playing M:TG requires all your mental faculties so being possessed is something we players don't want to happen.

Even before that incident though, M:TG was already being called evil. Much like the complaints against D&D, just because the game uses magic and there are cards which have the words "demon" on them, it automatically gets branded as a nefarious hobby.

M:TG is a strategy game at heart. You play a powerful magic-user who combats other similar magic-users. This is done by casting spells or by summoning creatures and enchantments. The game also has a balancing aspect as there are five types of magic, each corresponding to the elements. One type of magic called Black represents death and usually has the forces of evil at its command. Of course when that's the case, you can't have cards with titles like "fluffy white rabbit". Instead, you get dreaded names like "Lord of the Pit" and "Demonic Tutor" to fit the theme. However, some people tend to react when they see those cards. Perhaps they should see the other colors like White, which have cards like "Serra Angel" and "Pariah", or Green with cards like "Birds of Paradise" and "Wall of Wood".

That's not to say the game doesn't have its own set of problems. For one thing, participating regularly in tournaments cost a lot of money since it's not called a CCG for nothing. To keep up with the new cards coming out, you need a large budget. Second, since it's a game that involves a lot of strategy, it would naturally attract a lot of mature gamers. Along with those "mature" gamers are their vices like smoking. Third, a lot of cards carry a hefty price tag so greed is another matter. Thefts and tricky occur as sometimes, you'd be trading cards with complete strangers. My Jesuit, Catholic, Chinese high school banned M:TG because of the occurrences of theft, not the demonology associated with the game.

Despite that all, M:TG is a nice game to get into. All sorts of strategies develop which isn't possible in conventional card games or chess. Here, you have an infinite card pool which also equates to infinite strategies. As one of the ads say, "you'll never play the same game twice". You also get to meet a lot of people and if you're a really good player, earn yourself some cash and travel around the world. Heck, there's even ESPN coverage of it in the US. Better yet, it's portable and you don't need electricity to play it. And that's really something considering the tendency for power fluctuations here.

Am I demonic because of the games I play? Certainly not and while some people have told me I'm a jerk, I was never told I was Satanic. I really think the problem these days is the lack of trust people put into each other. Since they don't spend as much time as they should with their children, they suddenly suspect everything they get into and ready to point fingers instead of looking at themselves for fault. And then there are also the people who take Bible doctrine too literally. They probably even think they were descended from Adam and Eve instead of apes. As for me, judge me for my actions and decide with logic instead of mere fanatical devotion. I'm sure God doesn't want stupid, mindless followers.

Clockwork

While I'm a person that comes on time, I don't carry a watch. Call it a quirk but I don't like having a watch. When there was a fad of wearing Swatches, my wrists were devoid of anything mechanical. Even when my parents were offering to buy me a Rolex, I'd refuse on sole principle. It's nice to see people wearing watches. As long as I'm not one of them.

Ever since I was a kid, I didn't like wearing watches. I don't know why. The only watch I remember having was the one that could say the time when you pressed a button. I wore it for about a year before it broke. After that, watches were a no-no.

At first, my dad tried to get me a leather watch. Of course my wrists became itchy after wearing them for an hour. Also, I really didn't like telling time through Roman numerals. I prefer the digital ones but to me, saving up money for a watch was stupid. Digital was nice but I didn't want to spend money for it. After all, the most it did was tell you the time. Did I really want to spend thousands of pesos on just a watch?

I remember one of my classmates having one of those electronic watches that could act as a calculator and store people's phone number. I think it's the predecessor to the mobile phone's short message service as you had to type using numbers as well. I actually thought it was cool. When I asked how much it cost, I quickly forgot about it.

My brother also offered me one of his metal watches. Strangely, my wrists have the same reaction to metal as they do to leather. People rarely saw me with any jewelry on my wrists, or on any part of my body for that matter.

So now you might be wondering, how does a person who doesn't carry a watch tell the time? For one, I developed the skill of looking over people's watches without being noticed. And since most of the people involved were my classmates, I managed to tell the time differences between their watch and the school's. I could predict under a minute when the school bell would ring.

I also developed an internal clock. I could usually predict without looking at a watch how long I've spend doing a particular chore or how long a trip took. I'd even calculate how long it'll take me to get from one place to another so I was never late for meetings and appointments. Most of the time.

When I'm at home though, it's a different matter. Several watches abound here. In every room I enter, there's at least one watch which I could infer. Of course they all tell the time differently so I had to learn the time differences between them. I also depend on the alarm clock to wake me up each morning.

Of course now that I own a cellular phone, I don't need a watch. I just look at my phone to see what time it is. I even use it to wake me up in the mornings or to time myself. Some people call me an idiot for carrying such a large device just to tell the time. I merely shrug. It's better than wearing an expensive watch that makes you a target for all the snatchers roaming the streets.

Incidentally, I've never been robbed. Perhaps it's because of my modesty. Or maybe because I don't carry jewelry, much less a watch.

Power Failures

More than ten years ago, starting with the Cory administration, the Philippines started experiencing regular citywide power failures. It was so rampant that the term "brownout" was given to these erratic and sometimes scheduled blackouts. For a while, it gave rise to the generator industry as people started buying generators for their homes and businesses. Several years later, the power crisis was solved and Filipinos started looking forward to a continuous energy supply. Of course that wasn't the case. Down the line, power failures has become a hallmark of Filipino culture. We've experienced them during Ramos's term, during Erap's term, and even now during Gloria's term. Sometimes, the reasons they come up with can be ridiculous (jellyfishes) but that doesn't change the fact. We've been experiencing blackouts during the Philippine's history. And being a citizen of the Philippines, I can't help but be affected by it.

When I was in grade school, I was a video game fanatic. I'd play Street Fighter all day long and buy the newest games for my Superfamicom console. And then the regular power failures occurred. It's annoying when you finally reach the last stage only to have your game prematurely ended because of a power interruption, to say the least. Or worse, when you'd save a game, that's when the blackout would occur, corrupting the file and making your hours worth of game time unplayable. Video games were also meant to alleviate boredom. When there's no electricity, you can't play them. Thus, you end up being bored and looking for something else to do.

Which is probably why I changed my hobby by the time I reached grade seven. There was a new game out and it didn't require electricity. Everyone was playing it and it quite portable. The game was Magic: The Gathering, the first of what would be the Collectible Card Game (CCG) phenomenon. All you needed was a deck of cards (which were expensively bought) and you could play the game with someone who had a similar deck. Of course you might say it's just like those Vegas card games. Actually, it's not since a lot of strategy is involved: the cards you'd include in your deck, the ratio of cards, the strategy you'd employ. And since there was a continual influx of new cards, new strategies developed. It became so popular that regular tournaments were held. And the best thing about it is that even if there was a power failure, the tournament would go on.

A few years later, power failures soon became nonexistent. People got back to video games and I got back to television. Anime was slowly becoming popular worldwide and with the proliferation of the Internet, I would soon be part of that fandom circle. To me, what made anime different from the rest of the shows is its storyline and diversity. Anime, unlike regular cartoons, can have a continuous storyline. When I think about it, most of the "cartoons" I watched when I was a kid that had "to be continued" endings were mostly anime. Moreover, they weren't limited to shows just for kids. A lot of teenagers and adults were watching anime and it's not because of its wackiness or simple storylines.

By the time I graduated from high school, I had to choose between two hobbies: Magic or anime. On one hand, Magic was something I had gotten into for the past five years. On the other, anime was exciting and had fans from both genders. I chose the latter and it was a good choice since the number of Magic players were declining and it caused the end of a company.

Another hobby that also started to emerge during this time were the multiplayers games for PCs. Before, if you want the best games, you went for consoles like Playstation. Now, PCs were garnering fans of its own, especially in network games. Aside from Doom, Real Time Strategy (RTS) games were being played all over. Warcraft changed the gaming industry and its followers gave rise to a new industry: that of network gaming. A variant of Internet cafes, network gaming involved a bunch of computers linked together so that people could play games against each other. Unlike console games where you usually fought just one other person, network gaming enabled as much as a dozen people to participate. Soon, Red Alert, Rainbow Six, and Diablo were games people were playing at the malls. It was also a good way to bond with others and it wasn't unusual for barkadas to go out one afternoon and play the entire day.

Despite the fact that I didn't have a real barkada or group of friends, I was invited to participate in such events. Mainly because "the more the merrier" was the mentality, and the fact that sometimes, I was needed to fill in that uneven slot (5 vs 6? Come and join us). Still, it was a hobby I enjoyed.

Of course since everyone was playing network games, this made blackouts more noticeable. Everyone would curse and scream in Virramall when the power would go out. The hour's worth of combat was wasted since there was no resolution. Which is probably why Counterstrike became so popular. Unlike the RTS games or the other first-person shoot-em-ups that had long loading times, Counterstrike was quick. You could have a complete game in less than a minute. Thus, if there was a power failure, you'd only miss one game among many. If you were playing a RTS game, a power failure meant that you'd miss your one and only game.

Right now, mobile phones are the trend. Of course the problem with them is the fact that you need to charge their battery time and again, and charging took a few hours. A sudden power failure while charging your phone can significantly decrease your battery's life span. Then again, with all the piracy and smuggling with cellular phones, some people don't care and just buy a new battery altogether. I'm not one of them, so when a power failure occurs, I start cursing the power company, Meralco.

Let's also not forget the current issue wherein Meralco is overcharging people for electricity they don't consume. That's a headline in itself. Many people were protesting and refusing to pay their bills. There's also the instance that when a blackout happens, people start speculating what the cause was. Conspiracy theories about the government suddenly emerge and rumors of coups or covert attacks are spread. Just goes to show how these power fluctuations play a significant part in Filipino culture.

It all makes me wonder if twenty years from now, Filipinos would still experience power failures. It's strange how such a mundane thing as that can affect a nation, and myself.

A Rose by Any Other Name...

I don't proclaim to call myself a rose. I'm probably more of a sampaguita: fragrant today, gone tomorrow. Besides, it's the only other flower I know. That aside, I'm a person known to lots of people under different names. It's not something I planned, nor wanted, but happened anyway.

It all started with my parents. They're both Chinese and I think my father is an immigrant from China. When they gave birth to my brother, they gave him my mother's surname: Tan. I can only presume that the reason they did that is because my father has confusing paperwork with being a Filipino citizen. Ever since then, my parents' children had surnames belonging to my mother.

Legally, my name is Charles Agan Yu Piah Tan. That's what it says on my baptismal certificate. And perhaps even then, my troubles already began. You see my family's faith is protestant. But my parents being "practical-minded" wanted to enroll me in the best Chinese school they knew: Xavier. Of course, it so happened that Xavier was a Catholic school and they thought that "being Catholic" would increase my chances of getting accepted. And so they baptized me in a Catholic church: Mary the Queen parish. After which, I was raised in a protestant church. Of course me being a child, I had no idea all of this occurred and I lived my life thinking there was only one religion.

My grandparents are so Chinese that they don't have English names. My father, however, does have one. It's also Charles and his middle name is Agan. And so, I was referred to as a junior. By the time I was three, all my relatives and family friends started calling me JR. Charles didn't exist, only JR. When you wanted to talk to Charles, that meant my father. If you wanted to refer to me, you asked for JR.

It was a pretty simple life until nursery started. We all had name tags and my parents had to use my legal name. Thus, I was introduced to my teachers and classmates as Charles. Soon, my identity was no longer JR but Charles. My relatives still called me JR and so did the maids at home but out there in the world (which mostly consisted of school, school, and more school), I was Charles.

Since it was school and we were all kids, people gave us all sorts of nicknames. There wasn't any nickname that stuck to me over the years, or ones that I care to mention, but suffice to say, by the time I was in grade school, I was Charles Tan. Since Xavier was a Chinese school, I also had a Chinese name but no one calls each other by their Chinese name except in Chinese class. It was a pain to memorize how to write it in Chinese but I got used to it. Of course the funny thing about Chinese names is that it usually comprises only three characters and the first character is the clan name or surname, taken from the father's side. This should have clued me in since the first character of my name wasn't Tan but Yu (since there are many Chinese dialects, Tan isn't really pronounced as tan in mandarin: it's chen, while yu is pronounced as yang, so it's not as obvious as it seems), the surname of my father.

It was during an appointment with the doctor that I realized this difference. My mother gave my name as "Charles Yu" instead of Charles Tan. It was also embarrassing since the secretary would ask my mother what my name on the file was. She's usually answer "Charles Yu or Charles Tan". This proved to be a hassle to the secretary as she'd have to look up two names instead of just one. I'd ask my mother why my name was Charles Yu and she'd answer that my father's last name was Yu so it was only natural I'd be called Charles Yu.

I can only surmise why my parents started calling me Charles Yu at this point in time. This was the best I could garner. During one late evening, my father came home drunk and called me and my sister. He lectured us about being proud of our names and how I should be proud to be called Agan since that was what his classmates called him. He also happened to mention that in the past, he was a nobody and so relied on mother's father to support the family, which is probably one of his reasons why we all had Tan surnames. Now, he's a somebody and was doing quite well with business, which is why we should be proud of having Yu as a surname.

Of course there's also this other fact I learned from a friend a year ago. She said that Chinese families used the mother's side as a surname if the father wasn't a legal citizen. This way, the children would be counted as Filipino citizens. And considering the fact that my father had a Chinese Visa, this was probably the more logical reason.

It wasn't only I who was having identity problems. When I'd ask father to sign letters and forms, he'd be known as three people: either as Charles Tan, Charles Yu, or Yu Piah Tan. This proved to be a problem on my part as sometimes, I don't know what to put on forms asking for my father's name. I'd usually write Charles Tan and put my name as Charles Tan Jr. to differentiate me from my father. Thus I unwittingly created a new identity for myself.

More problems turned up when I'd invite people to come over at my house. Since we live in a village, the guards are strict and asked people coming in who they came to visit. I told them to say Charles Tan when in fact that's not what they should have said. You see my parents are registered as Charles and Mary Yu here in the village. To the villagers, I was a Yu, not a Tan. Thus, my friends sometimes had problems getting in.

In high school, my classmates started calling me Agan. This was to insult me more than anything else. "What, your middle name is Agan? What kind of a name is that? A gun?" they'd say. I found it offensive because of the tone and manner they said it but soon, that name stuck. By the time I was in fourth year, everyone in school was calling me Agan. Of course some of them don't know why I was being called Agan. They had no idea it was my middle name or anything. They just used it because everyone else was using it.

If that was the situation at school, this was the situation with family friends and relatives. I was introduced as JR, existed as JR, and known only as JR. Few people would recognize the name Charles Tan and identify it as me. To them, I was either JR Tan or JR Yu.

In church and in the village, I'd introduce myself as Charles Tan. When they ask about my parents though, I mention Charles and Mary Yu since that's the name people recognize them for. And I'd usually get a stupefied look as to why there's a difference in last names. Or perhaps I'd just introduce myself as Charles, the son of Charlie and Mary, and they'd immediately start calling me Charles Yu. It's not something I adore since my legal name is Charles Tan and recognize myself as such.

There was also this issue with a dentist appointment I had. I came from school and had my nametag on. Charles Tan was written on it but mother had registered me as Charles Yu so when they were looking for the dental records, they couldn't find it. I had to correct them and saw a small smirk from their faces. As a policy, I introduce myself to everyone as Charles Tan. It's only when my parents make my appointments that suddenly become Charles Yu.

It was also around this time that we acquired Internet Access. With the proliferation of chat and email, I had two aliases: Kamen and Naga. Kamen is the Japanese word for mask and I found that it suited me as a pseudonym. In the chat rooms I'd go to and in the mailing lists I participated, that was more or less the handle people knew me by. Of course if they did ask what my real name was, I'd gladly introduce myself as Charles. Naga, on the other hand, was my name on ICQ. Naga is a mythical creature that is half serpent and half female. Interestingly, it's also the name of a character from my favorite anime, Slayers, and the name of a clan from a popular CCG (Collectible Card Game). It also happens to be Agan spelled backwards so I thought the name really suited me.

I also gave myself the nickname "stalker" because I loved to creep up on people and surprise them. Some would call it ninja while others would just mutter that I'd give them a heart attack one of these days. Still, it was a nickname I gave myself and had to explain thoroughly to a lot of people since the name had negative connotations.

By the time I entered college, not only did I meet new people but also encountered old acquaintances. The people that came from Xavier or who knew me by an introduction from them called me Agan. The few family friends that were there referred to me as JR. To everyone else, I was Charles. It suited me somehow since in the event that I do forget who you are, the way you called me would clue me in as to how I know you.

Of course not everything is as clean cut as I'd want it to be. During my summer job at Pulp Magazine/MTV Ink/Philippines Yearbook, the publisher, Grace Glory Go, called me JR since she was a family friend and knew me by my mother. When I told her that I wanted my name on the credits as Charles Tan, she was astonished. "So you're Charles now, huh?" she said. Of course when my name finally got printed, it wasn't Charles Tan that I saw but Charles Yu.

And there's also the instances of my character lookalikes. The main character of one anime, Evangelion, looked like me, except that I had glasses. So at one point in time, all my friends who liked anime called me after his name. During college, Harry Potter was all hyped up and I also happened to look like him so some of my friends teased me and called me Harry Potter. And of course, there are those who called me by my self proclaimed nickname, Stalker.

No matter what people will call me, I will always be who I am. And like Clark Kent who refers to himself as Superman, or Bruce Wayne who calls himself Batman, I call myself Charles when addressing myself.

Adversity

If there's one thing I face every single day, it's problems. It might take on the form of assignments, projects, family quarrels, or even the weather, but it's always present each day. And it's molded me into who I am today. I think adversity is what makes man who he is now: not religion, not science, not even his *cough* *cough* "superior intellect", but adversity that has made man the upright person he is now.

One thing that bothers me often is boredom. Of course sometimes, you're too busy to think about it. Why? Because I'm often preoccupied doing homework, coping with the trials and tribulations people are giving me, and sometimes, just living out life. Which brings me to my first point. When you're facing all sorts of problems, you're not bored. It's nice to know having problems have their uses.

Another use for adversity is the fact that you learn and grow from it. I mean I've failed numerous subjects, got beaten up by my siblings and classmates, got rejected by friends and crushes, but despite that all, I've managed to survive and become better because of it. I'm now better at socializing with other people, good at evading danger, and manage to pass my courses. Even if I only narrowly escape them.

Let's face it, aside from variety, adversity is the spice of life. Without it, life would be dull and meaningless. Why would philosophers contemplate on the meaning of life? Why would anyone invent the light bulb when a plain campfire would do? Why would anyone improve themselves? If it weren't for problems, we'd probably still be in the stone age right now, huddled together in our dark damp cave without opposable thumbs.

Some people commit suicide just because they're good at everything and find no challenges anymore. That's how important adversity is. I honestly don't want life to be easy. If it was, some things aren't worth striving for. For example, it's one thing to know you acquired an A for a paper you toiled for hours than an A for a paper you just copied off the Internet. The former is a lot more satisfying and fulfilling. The latter is just a desperate attempt to garner the approval of your peers.

When you look at history, the events most remembered are the ones which have the greatest trials. They're well remembered because we rose from the challenge and learned from it. The Middle Ages ended when we advanced our technology and stopped living in the old tradition. America and the Philippines were found by the Westerners in an attempt to find spices. If it weren't for all these problems, we wouldn't be where we are.

The moment we stop encountering challenges is the moment we stop living. Life is unfair. If it wasn't, life would be easy and everyone wouldn't be pushed to their limits. It's only when we go against the odds and conquer our foes that we evolve, mature, and grow.

Creative Writing

Just the other day, a friend of mine, Duke, told me how he wanted to take writing classes. His course was management so I asked him why he didn't take comm. or creative writing as a major. He replied that his parents wouldn't allow him as he had to take over the family business. It really surprised me that he was interested in my course. That reminded me of people's reactions when I told them I was in creative writing. Some were in Duke's situation, wherein their parents didn't allow them to take it. Others, while they loved the idea of taking such a degree, didn't think it was practical. There were also those who asked me what career I'd have once I graduated. Looking back at all that, perhaps I'm privileged to have been able to choose creative writing as a course.

I don't know if it's in the genes or the way they were raised, but most Chinese families have an orientation towards business, especially the males. When I was still in high school were most of my classmates were Chinese, a lot of them were planning to take business courses or were encouraged to do so. According to them, someone had to "take over" the family business once their parents were gone. Hence, perhaps 75% of those who graduate from Xavier run off to pursue a business degree. As usual, I was the exception.

Not all Chinese males are doomed to a fate in business. There's usually a way out that doesn't involve being cast out of the family. For me, it was an older brother. He's eight years older than me (I'll tell your another time the story of the "accident" that was us) and is currently helping my father. There was no pressure on me to take management or its equivalent.

That didn't mean there wasn't any pressure on me. Aside from my classmate's remarks about creative writing, my dad, who doesn't know how to use a computer, wanted me to take computer science. Perhaps that's the strange thing about Chinese parents. They don't ask their children what they want to pursue. Instead, they "order" them to take something very practical and one that earns money. My father's perceptions have always been clouded as such. I remember once when my father quit being a member of our church when he found out that our pastor gave up preaching in the US to preach here. His reasoning was that in the US, he was getting paid ten times of what he's been being paid here. For father, it was "unfair". Basically, what he wanted was for our church to match the pastor's salary in the US. Which obviously couldn't be done. And the pastor wasn't even asking for it. What father couldn't understand was that there's something more than money. To him, satisfaction is equated with monetary returns. But that's not always the case, especially for the pastor, and me.

From the start, I was intent on not taking a business course. I wouldn't allow my parents to take that away from me. I've had enough of their ordering around for the past several years and I was slowly standing up to them. And then, I was confused on what course to take. I had two choices: one was on psychology, and the other was on writing. Psychology because I understood people more quickly than others, and I thought it would have been interesting studying people's behavior. Writing because I loved to read and I was interested in publishing and other forms of media. When it came right down to it, I was in creative writing because of a choice not made by me but by the colleges. My first choice in UP was AB Psychology while my course in Ateneo was BFA Creative Writing. I didn't get into UP. That basically solved my problem of choice (on a side note, my course in DLSU was a double major in psychology and creative writing).

Of course before the results came out, I was already leaning towards writing rather than psychology. I was daunted by all the research involved in psychology as well as the lack of psychologists here. I mean most end up as either researchers, guidance counselors, or teachers. I also did end up knowing the difference between psychiatry and psychology last year and so I was probably thinking more along the lines of psychiatry rather than psychology itself. In the end, I was happy with writing since it's more natural for me.

Throughout all this, it also occurred to me how flawed the career programs of high schools are. I mean most are given during fourth year, when they've already filled up their application forms. It should start earlier. Ours was during our third year, so I had a year to think about what I'd pursue. Perhaps it could have been made as early as second year so that the person can deliberate on what course he'd like.

As for me, I have no regrets pursuing creative writing. In fact, if there's anyone having regrets, it's those who didn't pick creative writing. I like the course, although I honestly don't know what I'll do once I graduate. I do love writing and I can't imagine myself doing anything else. I don't know if I'm any good but I have a passion for it. And in the end, perhaps that's all that matters.

A Double Edge

Sometimes, seeing my crush isn't something I look forward to. You might think I'm crazy for saying that. I mean a crush is someone you always look forward to seeing. Well, I do look forward to seeing her. However, there are just times when you crush doesn't want to see you or you know seeing her could prove disastrous. And when that happens, I'm torn between two conflicting emotions. Choosing can be a big ordeal.

For one thing, there are times when people should be left alone: sometimes when they're studying, when they're mad at you, when they're exhausted and busy, etc. At these situations, I can be selfish and try to approach my crush. Of course what you end up with is a frown and a person in no mood to converse.

Another time is when they see you too often. People sometimes mistake me for a stalker because I run into them all the time, as if I was conspiring to meet them every single day. Well, be it coincidental or not, it might be helpful to disappear from sight. The last thing you want is for them to be fed up and irritated at your ever-constant presence. You don't want to be mistaken as their shadow.

Lastly, there are also times when seeing your crush could prove fatal for you. When you see her, you're bombarded with emotions of depression and jealousy. I used to lament the fact that she didn't like me, or sometimes think how lucky some of her classmates can be as they can be with her all the time.

Of course, there are also times when you just can't stand not being near your crush. For me, not being able to help my crush when I can is tormenting. For example, I remember my crush trying to solve a physics problem that I knew how to solve. Of course she was mad at me at the time so I couldn't sit beside her, explain to her the problem, and help solve it.

Another time is when I see them all alone, a lone tree in a vast desert. I just want to go up to her and keep her company, at least until her classes start or someone comes by. However, I remember not being able to do that because she was still mad at me. It really tore my heart to pieces. Of course I did the next best thing: found one of her friends to keep her company.

Still, there are rewards in the rare moments I'm with her. We get to talk and know more about each other. I think that's one of the most satisfying things for me, for a person to share their stories with others.

I also try to make her smile as often as I can. When I see that pretty expression on her face, my day feels complete. Nothing else matters and I decide the risk I took in talking to her was well worth it.

Seeing and not seeing my crush has its ups and downs. It's hard for me to find the delicate balance between the two, and resist the temptations at the same time. Fear is also a factor that I constantly try to conquer. No matter how many times I've been disappointed in the past, I constantly try to approach my crush. Sometimes it pays off and sometimes, it ends up a good story to tell.

Dancing Notes

Everyone loves music. People listen to the radio, teenagers watch MTV, some even play instruments with a passion. The same can't be said for me. For a good part of my life, I was devoid of music. I didn't listen to the radio and MTV didn't really appeal to me much. Mentioning people like Celine Dion, Michael Jackson, and Madonna made me dumbfounded. To sum it all up, I didn't really care for music.

We have a piano at home. My mom used to play and my father sometimes tells me how he wanted to learn to play it when he was a kid. I didn't have those passions and so they enforced theirs on me. I was forced to endure piano lessons once a week, on Saturdays. It was a big sacrifice for me. Saturdays were days usually spent with other kids, the time you break away from school and have a day to yourself. Piano lessons made it seem I was going to school six times a week.

I read in another person's blog that it takes great courage not to stand up to your parents. While I'll credit her on that part, it's also true that sometimes, you just have to stand up for what you believe in. It's not easy being passive about things, but neither is taking a stand. Standing up to your parents is not only empowering but it also gives you a sense of responsibility. While it may free you at one point, you are also chained down to another. One day, I came up to my parents and told them I didn't want to have piano lessons. End of story.

And so, I didn't have piano lessons ever since. I stopped at grade two lessons for piano and now I just watch my sister who is also being forced to play an instrument she does not want. Unfortunately, she never had the courage to stand up for herself. As for me, perhaps that period was pivotal. I started making my own decisions then instead of relying on my parents. I was coming into existence rather than a shadow of who my parents wish they were.

I didn't conform to anybody. Later in grade school, people were listening to all these music CDs and giving rise to the "MTV culture". I didn't care for them and so I lived an ignorant life when it came to music.

And then, anime came. One of the vast differences between Western animation and Japanese is the fact that the Japanese actually take the time to produce a musical score. Aside from the catchy opening and ending songs, anime had great background music. Purchasing an anime CD wasn't like buying a record of your favorite artist. It was more like buying a movie OST, where several artists contribute to produce a unified theme. Some might sing the vocals of the opening song, another would sing the ending, there'd be a composer who'd orchestrate the background music for this scene, and perhaps a guy who'll make the sound effects for that event. It was quite appealing to me, not just because of the concept but of the talent.

I started listening to anime music in grade seven. It started out with buying a single CD. And then I bought another one. And another one. Soon, I was buying at least one CD a month. Of course since I wasn't really a music aficionado, I didn't have a CD player, much less a radio. I was forced to play it on my computer when my brother wasn't in the room lest he complain me for listening to music I can't even understand.

During the summer of my second year in high school, I was at home with nothing to do. There weren't really any good shows on afternoons and so I was forced to watch MTV. I didn't' like it much but I did get interested in a few songs, like Alanis Morisette's Ironic and Oasis' Champagne Supernova. It was just a phase though never to reappear in my life ever again. The only reason I tune into MTV nowadays is to watch Celebrity Deathmatch.

Also, I can't remember why, but I joined the Glee Club during my freshman year. My untrained voice was quite horrible since I could never sing in tune. The moderator always told me to sing from my diaphragm but I could never manage that. I had a deep voice though which was perfect for base. Too bad I really never got to perform with it.

Before I graduated from high school, the Dance Dance Revolution craze hit us. People were skipping and hopping on dance mats everywhere, from the arcade to the house. I found the music upbeat, which is one of the reasons I actually listen to music. Never got to dance though since I didn't own a Playstation and practicing at the arcades, in public, didn't exactly suit my taste.

There was also the ring tone craze where people were composing just so that they can have an appealing ring when people call on their mobile phones. Of course back then, the software for composing such stuff was stupid. Stupid, in the sense that you can only put one note and never play more than one note at a time. What you ended up was simple songs like Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and the barest tune of songs you hear on the radio. Since it was something that stupid, I could actually compose songs using my grade two worth of piano lessons.

It was also during that time that the word mp3 became the most overused word on the Internet. Just how popular was it? It outranked the word sex in search engines. You'd hear the Napster issue on the news and people were downloading "free" music like crazy. CD-burners didn't help either. This didn't affect me much as most of the concern was on Western music. I don't think people were really concerned on removing Japanese songs and BGMs on the Internet.

Nowadays, if I want to feel "energetic", I plop in an anime CD and listen to its upbeat tunes. Of course if I want to write, that's not what I play. A good, slow BGM does a lot for my nerve cells. A fast beat just scrambles it.

I really don't call myself a music fan. I mean I've had exposure to it but unlike most people, I still don't listen to the radio (then again, I also don't read the newspaper). Making music? I don't have the persistence, although I do think I could have amounted to something if I continued my piano lessons (couldn't it have been something else, like drums or guitar?) but even then, I'd probably be in love with the fame, not the music. Life without music? Can't imagine it, but I probably wouldn't notice it if it did happen.

Filipino-Chinese

There are several ways to look for one's own identity. One of them is by their nationality. Historians have believed that a nation has a collective identity with which its citizens identify with. It can be something as simple as taking a bath everyday, which is something most Filipinos try to do. Of course I happen to have my roots planted in two identities: that of the Chinese and that of the Filipino. Which am I?

My father says that I should be proud to be Chinese. In his own biased view, he thinks that Chinese are the most hardworking race in Asia. According to him, the only reason why Japan scaled the economic ladder is because they were united. And that is why I should learn to speak Chinese, visit China, and follow all these Chinese customs.

My grade school teachers, on the other hand, have lectured to me that I was raised in the Philippines and so I am a Filipino. It is my environment rather than my blood that has shaped who I am. I allegedly owe that to my country. It is the soil I am currently standing on that has sheltered me over these years and raised me since I was a babe. At leas that's what they say from their point of view.

I beg to differ from these people who claim to "know it all". Like most things in life, matters aren't just black and white. The perfect compromise was what I heard from my Economics teacher in high school who also happened to be an alumni from Xavier, Mr. Ang. "You are not just Chinese nor just Filipinos. You are Filipino-Chinese, no matter what other people may say." I think that best sums up how I feel.

On one hand, I have characteristics that of a Chinese aside from my physical features. I follow certain beliefs and practice certain traditions. I pay respect to my elders and so far, follow the patriarchal practice in the family. I even have a Chinese name. On the other hand, I am also Filipino. I am more comfortable with Pilipino than I am with Chinese. When I get hurt, I scream "array", not "ouch" or some other exclamation. I am more at home with this country than any other.

Identities are a strange thing. They're not only rooted from your source but also from your present. Your own personal history is being written and you are taking part in it. Is the real me the me from before or the me tomorrow? Somewhere down along the line is a compromise and it is one you decide on your own. No matter what other people might call me, I determine my own faith. And so while I am not Chinese nor Filipino, I am proud to say I am a combination of both: I am Filipino-Chinese. Nothing more, nothing less.

Masturbation

What can I say? It's a topic that's been taboo for me. Almost every male undergoes it (and I presume females as well), Catholic priests tell you to confess to them about it, and it's the topic of jokes on some sitcoms we watch. Despite all that, I could never have brought myself to write about it, which is why I'm doing so.

Because I studied in an all-boys school before college, all my classmates were open about the subject. There were all these jokes and anecdotes about it. For example, one said that he did it in the bathroom because it made such a mess and had an awful smell. Another guy would use condoms. And there's always the story about this guy who thought that the Hanson was female. For me, I'd rather just not say and stay out of those conversations.

Not admitting to doing it can be a problem. You'd be accused of being gay, and that's a big thing since Xavier was schooling conservative Chinese males (read: homophobia). If you didn't want to talk about it, they'd usually tease you as being one. People's curiosity amazes me. They sometimes want to know who you're masturbating, how many times you do it a day, and where you do it. Strangely, for a conservative Catholic community, my classmates didn't really think masturbation was a sin.

There are exceptions of course. Like me. I really think we should avoid it and not do it every single day. In grade school, my friend would tell me of how long he resisted the urge. He'd go on for a month only to go into the habit again. As for me, now a junior in college, I still can't manage to hold off the urge. I know it's a sin and all but sometimes, you end up doing it anyway. Admitting that is no easy feat.

A priest at our high school once said that there are three reasons why people masturbate. One was curiosity. I'm very well too old to be in that stage. The second reason is gratification. You've had a bad day and you want to get things off your mind so you masturbate. This happens to me from time to time. The third reason he gave was boredom. Yes, I've been recently bored but that's not a reason why I do it. It goes more like "I can't sleep and it's 1 am in the morning. I have class tomorrow at 7 so I really need to be asleep right now." Masturbation is draining so much so that after doing it, I feel quite sleepy. It's a pathetic excuse but sometimes, that's the only way I manage to get to sleep. Of course I don't like to do it because aside from the moral implications, it also leaves me exhausted the entire day. Twelve-hour naps are a result, and you know how much I hate wasting my waking hours. And of course, I sometimes feel horny and rather than have it subconsciously manifest itself tomorrow, I'd rather be done and over with it today.

On my part, I don't masturbate with "real" people. What that means is that I masturbate with fictional characters. Perhaps I read about them in a book or it's someone from an anime I saw. I don't want to imagine a real person since I feel that's lust. That fact lightens my conscience. A bit.

It all started when I borrowed a CD from my classmate in grade seven. It was full of games but it also had nude anime pictures. Well, what was a thirteen year old full of testosterone going to do then? A year later, I swore never to watch hentai. And so, I can freely boast that I've never watched any of those tentacle-infested hentai anime like Urotsuki Doji. A lot of my classmates have but not I, the "anime fanatic". Thank God only Pokemon is associated with anime nowadays.

I'm sure some of my classmates who might read this would be dumbfounded. I'm usually the student known for not cheating, the person who always speaks the truth, and the guy who usually does the right thing. While I may not be a religious person, I do try avoiding committing "sins" but I am still human. And if there's anything that motivates me not to masturbate, it's my love for the people I care about, especially my crush.

Journals

I've never consistently kept one, until now. More often than not, the only reason I keep a journal is because it's required of me. In high school, our English teachers had us keep a regular journal and I remember when we'd suddenly start writing entries as we approached the submission date. Nowadays, it's still required by some of our classes in college but I have managed to keep a journal, albeit one in an unconventional form.

Perhaps one of the reasons why I failed to keep a journal is because it required me to write, or more precisely, to handwrite it. I was never known for my penmanship, dexterity, or persistence when it came to jotting down something. Besides, my hands could never keep up with what I was thinking. What was managed to be put on paper was a pale comparison to my ideas. I usually just settle for something less, and let my hands heal from the arduous labor. The fact that I'm settling for less was an indicator that I'd rather not keep one if I'm not motivated to give it my best.

Another factor was trust, or should I say, my lack of it. I was never comfortable with the Catholic practice of confession, mentioning all your sins to a person, even if he is an embodiment of Christ. How much more with a journal where I will pour out everything I feel, everything I think? People who read it might think how horrible a person I really am, or sometimes, I'm just plain embarrassed. What if the reader can't get over what they read? They'll always have a stigma when they see or talk to me.

And of course, there's always time. Some people have lots of it, some people don't, and some people just want to get rid of it. Until recently, I never really took the time to write what I was feeling and contemplating. I had enough time to think and deliberate but put it down somewhere? That's a different story. Of course I do occasionally write when I need to vent my emotions somewhere. But those are rare moments and I'd hardly call them journal entries. They're more like essays, I like to think.

So what made me change? For one thing, my course is creative writing. One of my teachers said that I should be writing all the time and I firmly believe that to be a necessity for a writer. It doesn't matter what form your writing takes, be it a poem, an essay, a report, or *gasp*, a journal entry. Of all those choices available, it's journal writing that I see myself doing every single day. Composing a poem can be a chore. Writing in my journal is a hobby. What choice would you have made?

Second, for all my unwieldy skills when it came to handwriting, I'm a whiz when it comes to typing. The computer has been my favorite tool and is perhaps one I overuse. With the emergence of the Internet, cyberspace has become my entire hard drive and I needn't worry that my work will be gone forever. Once I put something on the net, it will always be there. And I can do it anywhere, from the school's computer room to an Internet café down the street.

Lastly, the emergence of web logs or blogs has changed the face of journal writing. For one thing, journals were never really meant to be read publicly. However, people are now posting up their ideas and daily lives for everyone (or at least their friends) to see. The concept of a journal has forever been changed. Perhaps because of that, I've overcome my fear. In fact, it might make people (and myself) understand me better. If worse comes to worse, there are other people out there who have written more humiliating and shocking stuff than I. I'm not alone in this world. Weird perhaps, but never alone.

The Phone Call

When I think about it, I owe a lot to the technology we call the telephone. For one thing, it's easier communicating to people. Instead of writing letters to people who live far away, all you need to do is call. When you're bored, all you need is to dial a few numbers to get in contact with a friend. And of course, let us consider the Internet. While there have been alternative ways to connect to it like cable or ISDN, one of the most common means in the Philippines is through the telephone.

I?ve probably made millions of phone calls in my life. A lot to friends, some to family, and on rare occasions, to crushes. What's so special about making a phone call? Well, talking to a person face to face is the most ideal scenario but sometimes far from practical. You can't very well go to a friend's house in the middle of the night unless they happen to live near your home. It's less expensive too. Writing them a letter, while has sentimental value, can be time consuming and you know there'll be a delay. Sure, you can send it to the post office today and he or she will only get to read it the next day at the earliest. What if you want to vent it out now and hear their reactions? Feedback is also in question as they might not answer back. Or perhaps not in time. Given that, email faces a similar problem. For one thing, you're not sure if they received your email given today's propensity for delays and errors. And while a letter has a distinct personality with the person's handwriting inscribed, emails tend to be bland with generic fonts and expressions. At least with a phone, you get to hear the person's voice and you feel their reactions to your statements.

I don't know if it's because I live the Philippines, raised in a conservative Filipino-Chinese family, the fact that I was bred at an all-boys school, I'm shy, or a combination of all these things that I always get nervous when calling up people of the opposite sex. It's easy when I have an excuse: I need to coordinate with her on a project, she told me to return her call, etc. However, there are times when I just want to talk. It's different when calling a guy friend. The one who answers it usually asks no questions aside from who's calling and hands it to the person I'm looking for. Girls, on the other hand, are a different matter. I always run the risk of talking to the girl's parents, some of which are highly paranoid. I have to explain myself as to why I'm calling and sometimes, they sermon me that it's already late in the evening for me to call.

Nothing could be worse though than calling my crush. No matter how many times I've done it before, my heart always pounds rapidly and I get restless. All these jumbled thoughts come into my mind and I become quite tense. And that's before I dial the numbers. Of course it only frustrates me if I finally dial the numbers and all I get is a busy dial tone. If that doesn't happen, I always count the number of times the phone rings before it is answered. If a male voice is on the other end, I get frantic and try to calm down. So far, there haven't been any father-caller interviews. It being a female voice doesn't help either. It might very well be my crush?s mother, or perhaps a pesky sibling. You never know the intrigues that you might unintentionally sow.

Being able to talk to my crush is only half the battle. Once she's on the line, I get excited and sometimes I forget what I mean to say. I mean to talk to her about one subject yet I end up mentioning another unrelated one. Sometimes, it doesn't even get that far. She tells me she's busy so I have to go through this entire ordeal a few hours later or maybe the next day. If that doesn't happen, I fear that she might not want to talk to me or I might bore her. Perhaps she's just humoring me. All these paranoid thoughts start to pop up.

As I said before, I might have called up my crush for the nth time and these things still happen. I still retain my fear and I always get nervous. Never mind the fact that the worst things have already happened to me: my crush has told me not to call, hung up on me, and from time to time, a harsh remark from the parents. Yet I still make the call as if it was my first one, with all its pros and cons.

You?d think that making a mundane thing as making phone calls would be easy for a guy like me. Just shows you how shy I can get. Makes you imagine how I manage to meet people.