He must have forgotten something on the way to work today. Rummaging inside his bag, he found everything he thought he needed. Wallet. Keys. ID. A pack of Marlboro Lights. Lighter. Breath mints. A notepad. His favorite fountain pen. All the necessary evils were there. Somehow he still felt as if something was missing. He remembers kissing his wife on the cheek before heading out the door. He remembers bringing his children to school and handing each of them lunch money. He remembers he finished the report for today's presentation two days ago. Whatever was the matter? He searched but found no contentment.

His confusion was interrupted by a phone call from his wife. "Honey, you don't seem yourself today. I was a bit worried when you left."

Drat. He had forgotten to rinse off the lipstick smudge on his shirt from last night. It must have been it. And perhaps why the wife was calling, she never called him at the office, was to worm a confession out of him. To hear him tell her, "yes, dear. I have been seeing another woman for five months now."

He felt a sharp pain in his stomach. His gut was slowly rising to his throat and he could taste the bitter-sour liquid from within. She knows.

"You forgot to eat your breakfast this morning."

I regret not convincing any of my friends hard enough to watch the Apo Hiking Society/Hotdogs concert with me. That event might not happen again anytime soon. The singers are getting old and, morbid as it may sound, one of them may die in a few years-- Stripping 80's music backtrackers like me of the right to sound fulfillment. It's sad. I probably didn't want it desperately enough at that time. But now, as I think about how boring my life is albeit the everyday chaos, comfort seems to come not from where silence is, but from where my roots are.

I did not grow up listening to the Hotdogs. My musical orientation was based on Batibot songs and Vanilla Ice. At the time Manila sound was at its peak, I was still struggling to get on my feet and say "mama" and "papa". I envy those who can tell stories of the wild times based on their experience. Not that I didn't have wild moments growing up. But, you see, the music then was better. I developed the party attitude with sound that competes with a dishwasher in a bad mood. Perhaps that's why people had to get really drunk all the time. The more intoxicated one gets, the more the music becomes more soothing to ears. Drunkenness has become a coping mechanism for the tragedy that came upon club music. I never really liked it. It was just so in and happening that I had to give in lest I be fed to the dogs. I had to act as if I was enjoying myself. So I drank a lot. And drank some more. The price of maintaining popularity.

I wish I were an 80s kid. I might have been born in 81 but I never really had the chance to live THE LIFE. I should have been born earlier.

More 80s bands should come up with tandem concerts before they die out one by one. Today's kids have a right to hear what real music is and should be.

Mr C was right. A writer can never write fiction unless it is based on something that is non-fiction. JK Rowling and Neil Gaiman churned out fantastic tales, but not without anchoring them on what makes a human human. The greatest stories of our time have some touches of nonfiction in them, primarily because the writer is as vulnerable as any person in this planet. This leaves me wondering. Now that I have decided that I cannot write pure fiction (if it does exist), why do I still hesitate to create nonfiction? Shouldn't it be an easier trek up the mountain?

I run in circles and it makes me dizzy every time. I chase after ideas and dreams only to stop short of a meter's distance from the finish line. Yes, I am afraid of crossing that point. However, it remains my ultimate goal. I have yet to delve deeper in me to discover what holds me back.

I crane my neck a little to catch a glimpse of his face, but I could only see half of it. Struggling to see further is futile. I would have to fall off my seat to achieve the goal. I see his arm moving. His arm blends a little too well with his shirt. They are both brown. He looks like a tree without my contacts on.

My train of thought is interrupted by a phone call from somebody named Laurence, offering me a writing stint at PJ Lhuiller. Right. Copywriting, I presume. One that would be a further insult to my skills.

I can't imagine myself writing for them.

"Sangla", "Subasta", "Minimum Interest".

Do I really want it? Or do I just like the feeling of being offered a job? What do I know about pawnshops anyway? If you ask me, I'm not going to take that stupid exam they're offering. Besides, they told me to bring my transcript of records, which I won't have until I have the drive to go back to school. HAHAHAHA! That could take years.

Life is good. But it doesn't get better when shitty jobs come after you.

In the meantime, I content myself with having a job my friends wish they had.

Vanity came at the expense of her hair.

I remember how my mother used to turn head into works of art whenever she felt like it. She had it dyed brown, deep red, then back to black, and even went as far as having all sections crimped and styled. As a young girl, I marvelled at the thought that my mother could transform herself after just one trip to the salon. Then, I considered her a mutant. Like the Marvel characters I obsessed over. She could get away with any hairstyle, because she was pretty. I could only stare in awe. I inherited most of my father's masculine features.

Friday, I received a call from her. I could tell from how she sounded that something was not right. I refused to ask her directly. Although my curiosity preceded me, deep inside I knew I didn't want to know what ailed her.

She was losing hair.

I'm not sure if it was because she used to abuse her hair or if it was genetic. It didn't really matter, you see. For the present told her and the rest of the family that each time she looked at herself in the mirror, she could see her scalp glistening. Even from a distance. And it depresses her. I don't need to be told what it does to her self esteem. I could tell from her voice.

What was usually a cheery tone turned dark and glum. As if she were struggling to turn hair loss into some kind of childish joke. Her hair was falling. And it continued to fall despite numerous trips to the doctor. I could not help her. I honestly didn't know what to do. I sometimes wish I chose to live where my family was so I could hug them immediately at times like these. My mother is a strong person, yes. But I don't think I am strong enough to endure the insecurity and emotional pain she is probably feeling right now.

Looking at the bright side, I feel happy that the hair loss was not due to a terminal illness. That my mother will still live a longer, albeit hairless, life. The doctor told her to wait a month till some of the hair grows back. But she told me she couldn't wait. My beautiful, vain mother cannot endure another day having to see the glow on her scalp. The rest of the family would rather have that glow on her face, instead.

So I bought her a wig.