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  • This feels like Sunday morning, heady from the lack of sleep and lack of alcohol but too much smoke. The street's half empty or maybe it was half full from last night’s. The hooker is walking along the deserted street with a crumpled paper fluttering gracefully an inch or two from the gray concrete road which leads to the loneliest place you could ever imagine.

    Don’t you think Joan Wasser is a genius? How could she have captured how it felt to be lonely 12 years ago?

    All I can remember now is Roces Avenue. And Wendy, George, BJ, Mad, Ferdie and that gay column writer from across BJ’s table. And Yeng and her kids. and Camille. And Apat. And their place somewhere in Sta. Ana if I’m not mistaken where we played UNO cards until 5 am. I played and laughed and laughed and enjoyed well. They too played and played and laughed just as I did but did some more. They smoked pot and when Mad was about to hand me some, BJ told him, "It’s not for 18 year olds," turned to me and asked if I was really 18. I think i nodded, yes. Maybe i lied. Maybe I was 17 that time.

    17 and lonely.

    So I smiled and said Pop BJ's rules would now prevail. But wait when I’m done being 18.
    And Donna.
    I remember Donna. How could I forget. She was my housemate.

    I couldn’t count the times I cried in my sleep. I have probably written about every single thing that came to my mind for the lack of a confidante, for the lack of a person to converse with. For lack of somebody who could empathize. and talk for the hell of it. Roces avenue was my weekend treat but weekend treats seldom come to my depressing university life. My parents wanted me to go to med school. I desperately wanted to get away from it all, thinking of killing myself because the 5.0 in math 17 would surely end me up in no med school. i ended up taking twice the math 17 and became a proud member of club math 34.

    Smoking. It was the answer. Because beer was so fucking expensive in Malate.
    i rouse from sleep at 1 am and didn't know what to do. I have studied but couldn't remember anything. I ran to the nearest 24-hour convenience store to buy 3 packs of cigarette.
    What the hell was I thinking.
    Do you know?
    Back at the apartment, I lingered in the receiving area. Thought of my frozen yogurt. The lizards were crawling on the beige walls of our old spanish house renovated into apartment for university students. The shiny wooden tongue and groove floor was cold.
    At 2 am, I was in our receiving area smoking to death and eating frozen yogurt.
    And wanting to believe nothing is terribly wrong with me.
    At 530 am I’ve smoked 10 sticks and felt horrible.
    Everyone was just waking up. The garbage truck was ringing its bell.

    Gaddamit.

    I still couldn't remember the pointers. At 6am I forced myself to a cheese, tomato, lettuce wheat sandwich because I was a fucking vegetarian who wanted to die of lung cancer.

    I don’t think anybody should ever go through this situation.

    Nobody should.

    Nobody should.



    (written in 2008)
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