Monthly Archives: September 2012

I’m doing an all-nighter because the group we assembled for a project is dysfunctional. Or at least it was, until we finally realized we got a second chance due in 2 days and decided to huddle up and talk. Why didn’t we talk this seriously before, I wondered. Then who knows; by some stroke of luck, we just might not have to be cramming.

I hate cramming. Everybody does. Nobody enjoys that adrenaline rush fueled by chaotic panic. But then again, a good portion of the population has crammed at one point in their lives or another. Primary reason being procrastination. Ahh yes, that stupid trance where everything else seems more interesting than what is supposed to be done. My grandfather, who is heavily religious, considers procrastination nothing less than sin. It’s a version of temptation, he says. Now I don’t like questioning the great deity thou hath giveth mighty praise all thy life, but I have trouble buying into the suggestion that allowing yourself to be distracted is automatically a sin. That kind of thinking usually results from seeing things in black and white.

But we can’t help it. The ‘sin’ of procrastination always seems to linger around us. Every person regardless of age and gender is guilty of this terrible crime. If Genesis in the Bible had the Tree of Procrastination, Adam and Eve would have violated His orders far quicker than how they committed the first sin. Although now that I think about it, the Tree of Procrastination would have saved them from eating the forbidden fruit.

“Hark, beautiful maiden. Wilst thou accompany-eth me in picking forbidden fruit over yonder?”
“Maybe later, Adam.”

I don’t remember Satan ever setting a deadline for picking the damn fruit, too. How unfortunate are we that the Tree of Procrastination never existed?


Why, just the other day, I was trudging knee-deep in a different project for another subject. Then somewhere along the line of that work, I got stuck. My engine conked out, I got nailed. I wasn’t making any progress. I was handling three types of data at once and they HAD to move forward simultaneously. But I couldn’t even get one to get back into motion.

As I sat in front of the computer with a blank expression on my oily face, everything around me started to look more…significant than they should. I was seeing all kinds of shit and the monkey in my brain started clapping his cymbals.

“Is that a spray-on alcohol? Whoever thought of this is a genius.”
“Efficascent oil? My body does hurt. Stupid badminton. Better put some on.”
“The floor seems more annoying than usual, feels dirty. Maybe I should sweep.”
“I’m thirsty. I just drank water 5 minutes ago, but I feel thirsty again. Oh well, gotta get up.”
“There are a lot of dishes in the sink (an army of 3), I should wash these.”
“The fans in the computer’s system sound loud. They could use some dusting.”

Distractions. But they don’t seem like distractions when you’re in that procrastinating mode. Kind of like what I’m doing right now. The task at hand isn’t finished yet, but I’m writing this nonsense. Let’s call this a break so I don’t feel sinful like my grandfather implies.


A chat with my aunt brings to mind the topic of the office. I’m not entirely certain whether I miss the office or I just hate school right now. School’s a bitch. People tell me that I’d be missing school once I’m working. I believe them. This graph from 9GAG tells it all.

We always want what we can’t have.

But right now, I hate school, and I ain’t gonna lie. Other than my programming subjects, I don’t feel like I’m doing anything worthwhile in school anymore. I was in the office just yesterday, but it’s not illegal to miss the office, right? Also, I get to do what I want to do in the form of work in the office. It’s IT-related stuff, dangnabit.

I’m procrastinating again. I’m going back to work now. Maybe.


It’s no secret that there is widespread poverty here in our supposedly beloved country. As such, it’s not uncommon to pass by street children on your way to school, work, or home; some even beg you for whatever you can give them. One can not help but feel sorry for these children. Ironic considering that the general opinion is that the children are the future. However, mercy for these young people has been something difficult for me to dig into myself for.

I don’t really know what to do with these street children anymore.

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One night, circa 2004, a 12 year old me was walking toward the kitchen of my mother’s house, located in the rear. As I approached the corner of the main house, I found my elder brother with a pair of his friends. They had a bottle of Gran Matador on the ground. He called me closer and instructed me to drink from this small glass he was holding then follow it up with a swig of juice to kill the taste.

I tried it.

PLECH! Horrible; tasted like crap.

What the hell did I just drink? After nearly gagging on what went through my esophagus, I stared at the 1-liter bottle and thought, “They’re drinking THAT MUCH of this?!” I thought my brother was nuts. I was completely oblivious for a 12 year old.

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Some identities shall remain confidential until the details of this story have been disbursed properly to the appropriate people — people whom we are actually hiding the identities from. It is best they hear of it personally before being briefed on the details.

Not necessarily taken on our monthsary

Catherine and I celebrate our monthly celebration on the 8th. It was our 28th month together last Saturday. We’ve never been too lavish; for as long as we’re with each other, it speaks for itself — although it doesn’t hurt when we go out for a movie or a dinner date. Last month, we even spent our monthly celebration by bringing her little sister to the hospital because she contracted dengue. It was in the middle of that catastrophic monsoon and the road outside the hospital was under knee-deep flood, so I had to carry the little girl on my back. So what could be worse, right? It wasn’t the best way to make a special day worth remembering but we found a way to smile at the oddity of the circumstances. At least we were together. And we still are.

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My grandfather is a believer in miracles. He’s not your typical religious nut — he doesn’t even get to go church every single Sunday. He even talks about his colleagues in church in vain when they try to bring the church to him when they start missing his presence — that can be attributed to his age and concerns with the weather. But he’s a prayer warrior, and a devout follower of the Word of God. The biggest reason being that my late grandmother was a recipient of such miracles. She had tumors in her ovaries; however she had a strong aversion for hospitals and wasn’t about to let anybody touch her vital organs. She chose right. And both her and my grandfather became witnesses.

And that story will be told to you by her. This is a testimony she wrote about her survival of cancer. Written by her, and proofread by her husband, my grandfather. I am publishing this with his permission and instructions.

I am a grandmother; a retired schoolteacher. I was born in Tondo, Manila, went to school in Zaragoza Elementary School and Torres High School, and finished college at the University of the Philippines. My husband is from Visayas. He is a retired engineer educated in the Visayas, moving to Manila in search of the proverbial but non-existent “greener pastures”. We have five children and six grandchildren.

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