Last weekend, I experienced the inner quiet that I've been in search of for quite some time. Over the course of the weekend, I have finally had the chance and the time to re-examine myself, to reflect, to rest, relax and recharge. Initially (and really, all the way up to the last minute) I was hesitant. It wasn't the way I expected my weekend to go, nor was it part of my agenda. But maybe my being there was part of Someone else's agenda for me. And while I spiritually had to be dragged kicking and screaming to Tagaytay, I'm very glad I did make it.

I went to Tagaytay with no expectations and even without a plan. And it was just as well.

When open to it, a silent retreat can change your perspective and outlook. I know it did mine. And to think this was my first silent retreat. And to top it all off, it was my first retreat EVER in 10 years. So yes, I was pretty open as much as I was pretty clueless.

I honestly don't know what possessed me to join the retreat. Over the course of 10 years since graduating from High School and leaving Jesuit spirituality, sustaining the spiritual foundations built over the 13 years of Jesuit education wasn't exactly compelling-- especially not where I went to college, whose order's practices were a far cry from the Jesuit teachings and outlook that I had grown very familiar with.

The industry I entered wasn't too big a help either. What with the long hours, the insane parties, the mixed priorities and all.

Being immersed in my work and in my routines, spirituality wasn't exactly a priority.

So it was surprising when my friend's invitation to the retreat, sent to my batch Yahoogroup, called out to me and there and then, I wanted to attend. And I was actually excited about it.

In the days leading to the retreat, I was starting to have my doubts. My weekends were precious and I starting to lose sight of the value of spending a weekend going on a retreat where people would continuously tell me about God and I would be missing out on coffee with friends, a drink or two and much, much needed sleep and peace and quiet.

For a good 2 days, I was torn. I knew I wanted to back out and I was giving myself a million reasons to do so. I was also having a hard time imagining stepping out of my comfort zone and doing something new. On a precious weekend for that matter.

But for some reason, something within me wanted to go badly. I could very well say that the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak. And while my motivations for going were dwindling one by one and the excuses for skipping out were increasing by the day, the idea of going on a retreat never waned nor flickered.

I didn't want to go yet I packed my bag for the weekend. I had no intention of going but I advised my boss that I would be doing undertime on Friday afternoon. And I just couldn't find it in myself to text the organizers that I wanted to back out. Within me, I really knew the right path to take. It was just so hard to make that decision especially with the thought of the weekend in mind.

After much vacillation, I made the choice to go. And it was a decision that I have not regretted since driving into the Canossa House of Spirituality.

Initially, my personal plan was to remove myself from familiar surroundings to seek quiet, to get closer to God and perhaps somewhere there, to stretch out my forehead that was starting to form a permanent crease due to stress.

True enough, I got what I wanted. I found quiet, I found peace in isolation, and I was able to talk to re-connect with God in the silence and tranquility of my surroundings. One of the compelling reasons for joining this DWTL-affiliated retreat was because it was during the DWTL 10 (or 11?) years ago that my perspective of God changed. And I felt that the retreat would be a good chance to go back to that place. It was.

Currently, I am on a "high" as what they used to call it. I am still basking in the effect of the retreat. This is the proverbial 4th day, or the days that follow the 3 days spent away from the outside world reflecting on one's spirituality. The 4th day is always the hardest because it tests everything that you have reflected on and realized over one's meditation. And I feel like I'm being tested like anything.

In retrospect, I realize that I had been longing for that retreat. While I'm in perceivably peak physical condition, my soul was weary. A lot of things had lost their meaning. The retreat was re-energizing and recharging. I didn't know it then and I do know this much: I needed it. And that's all I need to keep pushing and looking forward 'till the next time.

At this point, the worst is almost over. It's not over yet, not by a long shot. There are still people especially in the Cainta area hungry, wet, tired and waiting for any sign of relief from this catastrophe. And there are those who are still reeling. And those who have managed to get to safety but have yet to pick up the pieces. And those who have lost loved ones, as well as the ones who have lost all their possessions. And then there's the moving forward which could be even more difficult.

Maybe at this point, the only consoling thought is that the rains are over. Maybe safety and relief can finally come after.

Ondoy has devastated a good portion of Metro Manila-- and more so than the usual. In all my 27 years, I have seen crazy storms. I have witnessed falling trees, and branches shattering car windows. In Milenyo, I drove home from Pasig to Antipolo with no gas and have had a tree crash right in front of my car. So living through insane weather disturbances is nothing new to me.

But the effects of Ondoy were. The devastation it wrought is something totally alien that I think at this point, my mind is still trying to absorb and process everything that just happened. In past storms, it was always so easy it was like clockwork: stay indoors and wait out the storm. Watch from the window if you want. Ready batteries, charge emergency lights, stock up on food, candles, matches and water. Oh, and expect classes to be called off the next day.

After the storm passed, it was also almost like clockwork to donate to the less fortunate people who were victims of yet another of nature's whimsies.

This storm was different. Ondoy's wrath was the great equalizer. Everyone and his mother was affected. Everyone's got a horror story. Everyone knows someone who has an even worse story. This time, victims weren't nameless faces stuffed into makeshift evacuation centers. This time, we know the victims. We are close to the victims. And worse, we ourselves came thisclose to being victims as well and escaped the worst by some sheer stroke of luck.

Ondoy forced a lot of people out of their ivory towers and into the floodwaters and onto their rooftops. And really, who could have expected this?

Friday night was rainy. But that was to be expected. It had been raining erratically all week so Friday night wasn't special. I never even knew a typhoon was on its way when the group and I had dinner at Lime 88 and Nei and I had coffee in Starbucks even later. I do remember thinking that the rains would be perfect to sleep to right before turning in.

I woke up at 9:30 Saturday morning with a full agenda on hand. I even remember tweeting that the strong rains were perfect bed weather. A lot of tweets from friends were along the same lines.

I only realized that things weren't normal when I ventured out of the condo to drive to the village clubhouse to apply for a sticker. The rain was coming down in torrents and I had to turn on my headlights just to make the drive 5 blocks away. It was at the village admin office that I learned that one-half of my village was submerged in waist-deep water and the administration was at a loss on what to do.

(On another note, I must've looked rather foolish taking care of a car sticker when the rest of the village around me was in a tizzy. Undeterred, I got everything accomplished. The village however ran out of stickers and I still have to make a return trip.)

I was gone for a mere 20 minutes at the most. But when I drove up to the parking entrance of the condo, I found that water was already knee deep and that C5 outside the village gate was in the same condition. I think it was only then that the gravity of the rains finally dawned on me.

Back in the condo, I checked Twitter and FB. The tone of the status updates had changed. They were serious. Flood waters were everywhere-- seeping into everyone's houses, or getting people stranded on the road or wherever they were. Then the first of what was to be a deluge of videos and photos started making their way into Facebook and Youtube. Floodwaters submerging cars and carrying them away. People on the roofs of their houses. Christine Reyes (the love of my life) on the roof of her house. It was bad.

Around 2 PM, I got a call from my dad asking me where I was. He was waiting for my mom and the driver who were on their way from Intramuros to pick him up in Makati. According to my dad, my mom couldn't get through but they were making their way ever so slowly through whatever routes they knew to get to him. My dad didn't want to wait for them in the office so he said he'd wait for my mom in Shangri-La Mall. That was the last I heard from him.

Early in the afternoon, the signal went out from both my Globe phones. At first, I thought it was just my iPhone acting up again as it was wont to do that. It was when I checked my Nokia phone that I realized, I was incommunicado. And without the internet (and stolen wifi), I would have been absolutely helpless.

It was then that I started to get worried. The internet showed that floodwaters were rising all over. I was then fruitlessly trying to get in touch with either of the parents to tell them to get the hell off the road and to wait out the storm with me in the condo. I couldn't reach anyone. Everyone in the family is a Globe subscriber (including the driver), and all of us couldn't be contacted.

I felt helpless. I wanted to leave-- I wanted to do something. Take action. Donate. Volunteer. But I couldn't because I had the parents somewhere out there in the line of fire of raging floodwaters to worry about. To be able to get in touch with my parents, I went to the extent of going online in Facebook and asking one of mu cousins with a Smart line to contact my mom. He tried to no avail. My mom just couldn't be reached and neither could my dad.

No amount of worrying would help so I decided to sit back. I'd let my pent up frustrations out occasionally on Twitter, but really, there was nothing I could do but wait. So I did. I watched DVDs and I took a nap. And true enough at about 8:30 PM, my doorbell rang.

I ran to the door in a shirt and my boxers expecting it to be one of my folks. Only it wasn't. It was my mom's boss who was my neighbor. She had a Smart line and she was in touch with my mom. She asked me to go up to her unit to use her phone because my mom was stranded in the office and (being my mom) was as high-strung as ever. Finally, we were able to talk and I found out that my dad had been in Shangri-La mall, waiting for her and his battery was running low. I also used the lady's phone to get in touch with my dad.

With a concrete next step, I darted to my car and raced to Shangri-La to get my dad. If it was just my dad being my dad, it would be fine. But of course my mom and I have been more wary since my dad's stroke earlier this year. I found him in EDSA Central, in front of a closed Chowking looking really pathetic. We went off to a quick dinner in Shakey's El Pueblo (the only restaurant open. The Ortigas Center area was a ghost town) and headed back to the condo for a good night's sleep.

The sleep was broken at 6 in the morning when my mom came knocking to pick-up my dad.

When they left, I went back to sleep only to have my slumber interrupted at 9:30, It was my folks. All roads to Antipolo were impassable.

We attempted to get to Antipolo again after lunch. We never made it past Rosario. Rizal was cut-off from Manila.

At the same time, we couldn't even contact my sister. We just knew that she never left the house Saturday. We didn't know if the house was flooded, or who was with her, or if there was even electricity. We just had to trust that everything was fine and dandy.

It was only after a trip to Megamall for supplies (got my Mac looked at, bought a Smart sim card, my folks bought clothes) that we got in touch with Antipolo to know that everything was good and well. Lights were back on and so was the water. Globe was down and so was cable tv and internet. But at least everyone was safe.

The parents are spending their 2nd night in the condo. Tomorrow, my mom will go to the office while my dad and I will make another attempt to get to Antipolo.

Really, save for the no signal adventure, what my family went through was mild. As early as yesterday, I got to realize this and have never been more thankful, nor have I felt so blessed that God decided to spare us the anguish that a lot of people are going through now.

We never had to wade through murky floodwaters, nor seek safety on a rooftop, nor lose all our possessions in one fell swoop.

I know people who have. I've got officemates and acquaintances whose houses are submerged in floods. They lost everything.

A friend's father died when he was swept away by a flash flood.

The factory in Marilao is in shambles. A shipment was destroyed by the floods, the furniture's damaged and floating around and last Saturday, the workers only had time to run for their lives to higher ground.

And video after video after video and picture after picture keeps on surfacing online, showing the relentless damage to property of friends and strangers alike. People close to me. The internet makes it feel like its next door.

These are horrifying things that don't usually happen. That shouldn't happen. But they did.

I used to be so immune to floods, having lived in hilly areas all my life. Floods used to be adventures. But they never really came close to affecting me. Not until yesterday and today. I, or my family, dodged a bullet right there. And really, I count myself very lucky for this.

The only good thing I see out of all this is that it is situations like these that bring out the best in the human spirit. The Filipino spirit. It's inspiring to see a normally apathetic people collectively pitch in to bring aid to those in need. I hear on the radio people offering brand new family vans to be used as vehicles to deliver aid. And those who immediately head off to offer their services wherever they can be used.

I would if I could, because these are times when I don't really like sitting back and watching. But I got the family to take care of.

But it is in dark times like these that I feel the Filipino and I can actually see flickers of light.

My beloved bachelor’s pad—my safe haven, my sanctuary, my “quiet room”, my island, my no man’s lang—has been infiltrated. And life will never be the same again.

I have lived happily by myself in this airless, dusty, huge studio unit along C-5 for a little over 3 years and I have enjoyed every single minute of it. I have loved how living nearer to my office gives me a little more time to enjoy life rather than spending a good portion of my prime years on the road. I liked how I could unleash all my interior design frustrations out on an otherwise drab condo to give it a nice, bachelor feel. It was also great to have a refuge from the turmoil of the rest of the world—when I didn’t want to be with friends or family—and I also relished the fact that after a long day of having to face people, I could re-charge and regroup myself in quiet. I also built habits around my place like watching an episode or two of a series before bedtime just to put me to sleep. This had been my ritual since I moved in.

Sure, the condo has had in downside. I had lots of problems in the beginning paying for all the bills by myself as well as having to cope with maintenance costs. It was a bit tough at first but I fixed myself up and managed. Things have gone along swimmingly. And really, I couldn’t ask for more.

Sadly, what the family giveth, the family can take away. Including my personal space.

My cousin got a job in the Pasig area. And since Alabang is far, gas prices are exorbitant and traffic is just such a bitch, it seemed only fitting that he move in with me. And starting this week, he did.

In one fell swoop, everything I loved about my sanctuary was taken away. My interior design was ravaged— since my cousin needed a place to sleep, a huge navy blue sofa was moved in. Along with my cousin’s clothes, shoes and other paraphernalia. Now, since my cousin’s sofa bed has displaced my bean bag and is between my bed, I haven’t watched TV since this week. Because of that, I suddenly have a difficult time falling asleep. Me—the guy who can sleep anywhere—is suddenly finding sleep hard. And not only that—I’m also suddenly a light sleeper! Gone also is my quiet time. After spending every waking moment of my workday talking to people, I go home and have to chat with my cousin as well. The result is that I am fatigued. It’s the feeling of a computer that’s been on for 2 days—yesterday’s tired is still today’s tired. Or it feels like one long, continuous stream of tired without pause for rest in-between.

I also don’t appreciate the fact that he brought his girlfriend over. It shouldn’t be such a biggie though because I have brought over people throughout the years.

This change is hard on me because I have never shared a room in my entire life. I have also never had a brother or lived with another male presence except for my dad.

This is compounded by the fact that I guard my personal space very staunchly. And living in such small quarters and such close proximity is basically encroaching on my space and making me claustrophobic.

Don’t get me wrong—my cousin’s a nice guy. We get along really well—as cousins. And this much I told my mom—that I wanted to know my cousin as my cousin and I didn’t want my relationship to get to the point that I hated him because of his habits (and vice versa) or because 69 square meters is not big enough for the both of us. I also didn’t want him talking about me or complaining about me to his family.

While I am not a fan of my current living situation, I am trying to look at the upside of things. Last night, he and I had a few rounds of beer at Uncle Moe’s. Having him as a roomie gives me a drinking buddy any time I need it. I also get an alternate car on coding days because his work is confined to Pasig which means he doesn’t have any MMDA or MAPSA dodging to worry about. And another great thing, I guess, is that I have someone to split the bills with.

On the ride home with Laur last night, we were discussing my inability to hang on to a relationship. She told me that it was because ”You don’t let anybody at all into your life! You can’t even let your cousin in, how much more a girlfriend?”.

That hit home.

Currently, my cousin and I are still figuring things out and figuring out our way around each other. Living with him is going to take some getting used to the same way that he has to get used to me. I’m trying to find a lesson in this whole situation somewhere—whether it be character-building, patience or whatnot.

If anything, it could be that it’s a start—that it’s practice for letting someone in.

I should be used to getting disappointed. It's not as if I'm a little child with unrealistic expectations from life, and who believes in Santa Claus, the tooth fairy and wishing on a star. I know the pros and the cons of the things I wish for, I work hard for the things I want and I ask for help when I need it. And when there are things within my reach, I make a valiant effort to move Heaven and Earth to make a grab for them.

I also should be used to being let down. Hell, I'm 27 years old. I'm used to winning some and losing some. And I'm used to things not going my way.

The pain of the let down however never changes. It's that heavy feeling that something inside, like a dream, has died. And there's a weight propped right smack on my heart.

It sucks even more I guess when it's family that let me down.

To be rational about it, things were probably not meant to be and that I was setting myself up for future difficulty. But it's only natural to feel that somehow with the help of people I thought I could count on, things could have been different.

In any case, I'm feeling really down at the moment. It's this undiscernable combination of annoyance, irritation, anger and disappointment. I want to lash out, but it will probably be pointless.

Really, debating with family is like banging my head against a brick wall to get to the other side. It's painful, it's fruitless and in the end, you're going to end up where you started none the better.

Like most crappy things that happen to me, I'm pretty good at convincing myself I'm okay and masking my true emotions. And then I'm going to force myself to look at the positive side of things. And then I'm going to push myself to bounce back as if nothing ever happened.

When I was a kid, I taught myself to get up right after a fall and to not mind the nasty scrapes and bruises. I also taught myself to self-medicate if I had to. And hide the wounds if I needed to.

What I'm feeling right now, this is forcing myself to get up after a fall-- real world style.

By tomorrow, I'll be smiling again. I'll be socializing again. I'll be enjoying my surroundings again. And I'll be back to professional mode again. No one will probably sense the disappointment. And I'm not gonna drag anyone down with my mood or my need for pity.

But let me have this quiet moment of crappy to myself.

Tomorrow will be better. I promise.

When I see a car, I don’t see it as an expensive piece of machinery. Or something that will increase my carbon footprint. Or a liability.

When I see a car, I don’t see as just a Toyota, or a Honda, or a Mitsubishi. I don’t see it for its sleek lines, or its engine, or what I can do to spruce it up. I don’t even see if it will make me more gwapo in the eyes of others.

I see a car for the promise it holds and for what it can be to and for me in the future.

When I see a car, I see myself and the car as far as five years ahead. I see the car for all the time that will be spent in it—road trips with my family and friends, en route to familiar destinations as well as conquering new territory. I hear road trip music and the off-key voices of the people I love singing along. I smell the sea. I look forward to the sights. And the laughter. And the memories.

When I see the car, I look at the miles we’ll cover together. Not just in length but in life. This car will be shuttling me safely to my job everyday. And to the gym. And back home again for the next few years. The car will have a front row seat to my life and to changes in the future. I see that this could be the car I own when I meet the girl who is destined to be my wife, and the car that could get me to my wedding, or bring my pregnant wife (or girlfriend?) to the hospital and bring my new child home.

I wanted a car that could fit my family comfortably. When I eyed the car, I also thought it would be perfect for bringing my dog on trips (Rest in peace, Dogdog). Or for bringing to Anilao. And Baguio. And a million other new places.

And since I will be maintaining the car, I also want a car that will be affordable. Something that doesn’t have 2 tires in the grave.

I may have found the perfect car. Perfect in almost every sense. A very well-maintained compact SUV with a relatively low mileage, and a great going rate for a car of its make and model. The not-so-perfect thing is that it is kinda out of my price range.

But sue me if I’m gunning for something out of my price range. And sue me if I’m moving Heaven and Earth to find a way to make the car mine. I’ve conditioned myself to the expense. I have already readied myself to forego nights out, clothes, shoes and trips for this car. This is what I like to call my intro into owning assets. I also know that later in my life, I will be paying for a car anyways. Let this me my training ground.

(Other opinions are also welcome)

This is me at the moment. I have this terrible tendency to be obsessive and this is my obsession at the moment.

I would also appreciate a little guidance—especially from people who count (e.g. family). I am clueless in terms of loans, in terms of chattels and liens and all these terms that are foreign to me. All I know is that I go where there is at least a shimmer of hope. It would help if people, rather than dissuading me, point me in the right direction. Tell me how to go about things. Offer advice on the right banks. Give me something real to hang onto, rather than false hope. I’m thankful for the financial support—but help me get my part done too.

For a starter like me, these things are difficult. I’ve already experienced disappointment left and right and it would be great to aided toward the right track for once.

I really hope though that this car happens. It’s a very good deal. And it is a few inches short of arm’s reach.

If only I could figure out a way to gain the extra inches.

I can't help but thinking that I'm being left behind.

While trolling through Facebook, I saw my best friend's latest album which featured more pictures from Kazakhstan where he lives for the time being while he carries out his practicum in some bank there. It's his practicum for his MBA which he's taking up in Stanford, by the way. And before that, he was shuttling between Manila and a whole lot of countries as a consultant. With a six figure salary to boot.

Then there's one of my closest friends. She's back from the US where she did her Master's in Princeton. And her practicum in Sudan. After her stint in Sudan, she backpacked for 2 weeks across Africa. Aside from that, this girl has seen and experienced more than I could ever hope for in my lifetime. Her life mission is to change the world and I see it coming through-- with the foundation she put up and the lives that she changes with everything she does.

I've got another good friend who shuttles between Manila and various parts of the country doing NGO work. Before he entered that profession, he did his Master's in Singapore and spent a sem in New York as well.

These are my kabarkadas from High School. We're still very close to this day.

And then there's myself.

Some days, I can't help but question myself on where I went wrong, if I did at all. While I drink a little too much for my own good, I can't really consider myself a screw-up. More or less, I've walked a pretty straight line-- reading books more than watching TV, getting decent grades (let's just not mention Math, shall we) and joining orgs. I was active in school, I didn't do drugs (just for experimental purposes), I was never a party boy. In short, I never did anything that would've made my parents think that they didn't do their job well. I was a hard worker who constantly felt the need to go the extra mile and I felt that I always had direction, in the sense that I always knew that what I was doing had a purpose. And more than that, I always felt that I was smart and if anything, at par with my friends (once again, let us not dwell on Math).

The frustration then lies in the feeling that while I travelled the same course as my friends, why is it that I feel that they have achieved so much while I'm stuck where I am-- at the bottom rung of an advertising agency, eking out a living to pay the bills and satisfy my material cravings by keeping my Clients and my superiors happy. This is the way it has always played out from the moment I entered my job 4 years ago. And it hasn't changed. The needs grow as well as the pay. Every year though has become a routine-- each year that presents new problems, but each days almost the same as the last. But some days, I can't help but think that I want something better for myself.

I have never let go of the belief that my mom instilled in me as a child-- that if I work real hard, then I'm going to get somewhere. I still live by this. But it just doesn't seem like I'm getting anywhere.

I feel like I'm not maximizing my life by being cooped up in an office all day. Once upon a time when I was young, I wanted to set the world on fire. I wanted to change the world. I wanted to inflict myself on the world. That was back then-- 10 years ago, when the world was before me, brimming with a million possibilities. After 10 years, I haven't made my mark and it seems I'm far from doing so.

While writing this, I can't help but remember Baz Luhrmann's "Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen" wear he says, "Some times you're ahead, some times you're behind. The race is long and in the end, it's only with yourself".

And while I'm not particularly jealous of the achievements of my friends, hell, I'm jumping for joy for them. It just strikes a chord though because I just feel like I'm a hamster on a wheel-- like them, I exert maximum effort but it seems as if I'm nowhere closer to my dreams and that I'm imprisoned in a humdrum existence.

As I grow older, the possibilities and the promise fades little by little, one by one. And slowly but very surely, I am sucked into submitting myself into a humdrum existence-- one that keeps me comfortable, but one that requires the youthful ideals that I still idealistically cling to in exchange.

I am at the age when the possibilities are slowly slipping from under me. So much for the dreams I wanted to offer to the world.

I need to rock the boat. I need to step out of the comfort zone-- challenge my humdrum existence and veer from the comfortable path.

Of what exactly I want to do, I'm not really sure of at the moment.

But it better happen fast. And it better happen soon.

Got this from Summered's blog. It's true.

"This phenomenon, known as the “Quarterlife Crisis,” is as ubiquitous as it is intangible. Unrelenting indecision, isolation, confusion and anxiety about working, relationships and direction is reported by people in their mid-twenties to early thirties who are usually urban, middle class and well-educated; those who should be able to capitalize on their youth, unparalleled freedom and free-for-all individuation. They can’t make any decisions, because they don’t know what they want, and they don’t know what they want because they don’t know who they are, and they don’t know who they are because they’re allowed to be anyone they want."

Michael Douglas McArthur (December 24, 2006 – July 5, 2009)

The pain and the stabbing sense of loss have subsided. It has been replaced by numbness. I’m hoping that this numbness lasts long enough for me to forget the feel of stroking Dogdog’s huge, round, hairy head in my hand. Or the feel of his tongue licking my hand. Or the sight of his bright brown eyes on seeing me come home. I hope that I feel numb until the memories aren’t so raw anymore.

It’s been 3 days since that night when Dogdog passed away suddenly. Too sudden that none of us saw it coming and I never had the chance to say goodbye. In one brief moment, he was gone. And despite the fact that I was watching a musical comedy, when I got a text from my dad saying ”When you come home, you won’t see Dogdog anymore”, I went through the show in a daze. Sure, I found the play hilarious. But the thought of what happened to my dog couldn’t help but nag me at the back of my mind. Sometimes, when all you have is hope and when you don’t have a clue, I was keeping my fingers crossed, praying that my dad was just being annoying or something.

I drove the car into the garage but I didn’t dare look at Dogdog’s usual spot by the grills of the dirty kitchen in fear of the confirmation that Dogdog was gone. Everything was confirmed though when I stepped in the house and our helper told me that true enough, we lost Dogdog that night.

At that point, I holed up in my room.

That night, I had every intention of blogging about my great 5k run. Or the play I watched, the “25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee”. But the memory of Dogdog was hounding me (mind the pun!) and all I could think of was writing about him. But at that point, I was too grief-stricken to form a coherent sentence, much less a nice blog entry that paid tribute to Dogdog. I wanted to do him justice. Back then though, all that was resounding in my head was that he was my dog, I loved him and he was never to be again.

It’s hard on me because despite living away from home, I was the one who spent the most time with him. Dogdog was not just a dog to coo over and pet when convenient. He was a friend. Everytime I played with him, I could see (and I still remember them now) the combination of elation, joy and trust in his eyes. Dogdog and I would have our regular Sunday night twilight walks where we would explore my village and the neighboring villages. His constant antics would amuse me and at times annoy me. But it was what Dogdog was all about.

I was the one who looked for a Golden Retriever puppy online and found Dogdog’s breeder. My dad and I even drove all the way to Maragondon, Cavite to pick him up. The breeder gave us Dogdog, the biggest of the litter of 11. He was a chubby puppy with white paws. And he was one playful puppy—something that he never outgrew up to the day he died. He was constantly restless and whenever he would see any one of us, he would bound (not walk, not run. Bound.) in our direction and jump on us. This is the reason why whenever we were leaving the house, he was always put behind the grill. Just so we could leave with our clothes intact. Even the vet had to struggle with him whenever he was there. I was rather amused though.
Dogdog also had a million antics up his sleeve. Like his (unexplainable) love for riding tricycles. Or the time the tip of his tail was sliced clean off because it got caught in the screen door when he attempted to enter the house. Or when my sister couldn’t leave the house because Dogdog (forgetting his size) got his head caught in between the grills of our gate, thus my sister couldn’t get her car out. Or when we would walk and he would just sit down out of nowhere, probably letting me know that he was tired and he wouldn’t budge an inch ‘till he rested a little. Or how he would always slip and slide along sidewalks after a rain. Or that he would always jump over drains.

Dogdog knew minimal tricks. No one really took the time to train him. He knew his name. He knew “up” and “very up” when standing against the grill of the dirty kitchen (his favorite spot). When he died, our driver was trying to teach him a few things.

A few things that will never be.

Now, Dogdog has left us with nothing but his memory. More than the images of him romping around the garden, I will remember how much joy he brought to the family.

In his passing, aside from the loss, I am also reeling with regret. I feel bad for all the walks we never took. I feel bad that in the last few weeks of his life, he never got to walk and see the village, which he loved to explore because I was too busy to take him out. I feel bad for all the plans I had for him. Hell, I was going to buy an SUV so that I could take him around.

When he died, a song from Les Miserables kept playing in my head: ”There’s a grief that can’t be spoken. There’s a pain that goes on and on…”.

At this point, I just comfort myself with the thought that wherever Dogdog is now, he is happier. I hope that he’s got open spaces to run and play, and that hopefully, the Big Guy up there is taking good care of him—playing with him and giving him all the attention that he loved and craved for so much. And that he’s free from all pain.

And I hope that one day, I hope to see him again. Just like old times. I’ll see him just as I remember him—fat, hairy, happy. And maybe it’s just as well that that is the image of him that remains with me.

And on that note, maybe it’s just as well that I didn’t get to say goodbye.

* * *

It’s been a year since the first time I joined the MILO Marathon.

Back then, it was a struggle. I had just quit my nasty cigarette habit a few days earlier (read: 7 days) and my visits to the gym were few and far between. I didn’t have training whatsoever, save for my pathetic efforts on the treadmill during those few and far between visits to the gym.

But I joined. Just for the heck of it.

The struggle to the finish line was a combination of rain, sweat, pain, pathetic wheezing, running and walking. But for a start, it wasn’t record breaking, but making it through the race was an achievement in itself. In 55 minutes to boot. Sure, my “Olympic Moment” was spoiled by the fact that I forgot my race number at home and was made to cross the finish line from the sidelines, I wasn’t wearing the right shoes and that every part of my legs was screaming bloody murder when I got home and when I woke up the next day, but I felt it was worth it.

Back then, I knew I wanted to run again.

I gave the marathon another shot at the finals last November. By then, my visits to the gym were a little more frequent, I had not smoked in months and I was wearing the right shoes. I managed to jog the entirety of the race and finished at 40 (or 45? One of those) minutes. Oh, and I also left my number again. This time in the car. But at least I got my certificate.

This time around, I was back with a vengeance. I was determined to get it right. Screw the time. All I wanted was to do the race and do decently. For this race, I was prepared. I had been running 5 km twice a week for some 2 months now. I made sure I had my number. I had running shorts this time instead of my usual basketball shorts. And I carbo-loaded with wheat bread 2 hours before the race. Yeah, you could say I covered all bases.

And with moments to spare, I made it to the starting gun on time.

Of course, despite all preparations beforehand, some things just don’t change. The marathon is still all about running with all sorts of people—the kids who walk the entire way holding hands, the crowds, Zorro, kids running after each other as well as having to run zigzag to avoid people.

By the 2.5 km turnaround, I was wondering why despite having decent training, I felt really sapped. I deduced that my regular runs did not involve avoiding hundreds of children by running up sidewalks, running sideways or literally mowing down children in my path.

In any case, I made it. It wasn’t as painful as my first go, but it still felt like an achievement all the same. I ran the race in 36.33 minutes this time. Not bad. And also, it’s worth another try once again.

The next goal: Could it be the 10k?

* * *

The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee is hilarious!

I need to do something new.

Life is plateauing. It is an endless stream of administrative work, Client coordination and project management. My days are hazy and I feel like I'm in a daze. Each day I get up and go through the motions that get me through the day. It's a routine. I'm starting to feel like my life is a black-and-white photo.

I don't have that spark. I don't have motivation. All I know at this point is that I need my job to pay the bills.

Thinking about it, the year has afforded me more new experiences than I expected. I got a girlfriend, I went to Malaysia, I'm finding the elusive work-life balance, I'm going to the gym and I'm running and hell, I'm dieting. But right now, I'm still feeling empty.

I think I need to step outside myself for awhile. And step back. Distance myself from life as I know it.

I need to miss work. The same way absence makes the heart grow fonder, I need to remember the rush, the vibe and why my job is so fun all over again. I read a quote last night on my friend's Facebook status update: "When you're about to give up, remember the reason you've held on for so long".

I am trying to remember. I am trying to jog my memory as best as I can.

And I am in search of something that'll bring back the excitement to everyday.

Right now though, the rut remains.

The blues. That overriding feeling of unforgiving sadness that gets to you at unexpectedly and makes everything seem hopeless. I got them and bad. And I know I'll get over it soon. But right now, "Cranky" is my middle name.

Remember a few months ago when I said that at one point, it felt like all things were going for me? That I had a girlfriend, that I was on the verge of a promotion and that I was nearing the purchase of a new car. And that I was bracing myself for the fall.

The fall came. Today, the promised promotion has been effective since June but I haven't signed any papers. The girlfriend is gone but we're better friends now. And while I am working on getting this 5-year old RAV4, I am still a struggling commuter at the moment. And my iPod has officially died.

These days, any speed bump at work sets me off. A day hasn't passed without me getting riled. And I am trying more than anything to get a toehold of what the hell I'm doing.

Admittedly, I'm a bit lost and I'm just trying to wing it.

I'm stuck in a rut right now. I'm at a crossroads. I'm at an intersection of make-or-break decisions. And I don't know what direction to go.

I know my short-term goals. Get the loan for my car, constantly work on health and fitness (get a better body in the process), work on my work-life balance, try to get my professional life in order (or maintain it for that matter).

The long-term goals are fuzzy and at the same time terrifying. It's hard to narrow down what I really want out of life and make the first step in that direction.

At the same time, it's hard to let go of people. As I always say, saying goodbye is not my strongest suit. So it's hard to not look back.

The rut will pass, the same way seasons do.

The rut though just has me asking some very relevant questions. And at this point, there is a pressing need to at least begin answering some of them.

When my dad got hospitalized 6 months ago, that very night I promised myself to accept that things would change, no matter how great. Alone in the emergency room waiting room without a clue as to what was my dad's prognosis, it was my way of preparing myself for the unknown future. Since there was nothing to do in the emergency room but worry, pray and hope for the best, a million future scenarios were running in high speed through my worried mind.

Because I was clueless, my overactive imagination began preparing me for the unthinkable possibility that I would lose my dad. If God were kind enough to grant us more years with my dad though, I would accept the all new realities that my dad would leave the hospital infirm, weak, possibly paralyzed and that life as I knew it would change. And with that, I would accept my dad as physically changed. My fallen super hero, but my super hero all the same.

6 months later and my dad is almost back to normal physically. He's back at work and he's been walking without his cane for about 5 months now. He hasn't stepped behind the wheel of his car since the stroke but we've hired a driver to shuttle him to and from work. He's slower, and he would prefer not to walk long distances. His left side is also a bit weak. But otherwise, he has complete use of all his faculties. For all of this, I was very grateful.

But while I do know that I have embraced change, I didn't realize that the stroke would affect my dad's personality as well. And this is something I wasn't emotionally prepared for and am still struggling with to this day.

My dad who was once witty, cheerful, sharp and patient has turned into a cranky, irrational, irritable man. This is the bitter pill I have to swallow. But I have to say that it's not going down all that well. The result is that relationships with my dad have become strained to the point that sometimes we absolutely have nothing to say to each other when once upon a time, our banter would be flowing and endless.

At this point, I admit that I am the main source of the tension. It's just that I can't connect the dad that I grew up with, the super hero, the idol, the charismatic man and the man who more or less is the reason I am what I am today with the cranky man before me. Because of this, I constantly and purposely push, probe, contradict, correct, annoy, irritate, debate with and anger the man in the hopes of finding a glimmer of the image I keep in my heart, that of the dad that I once knew.

There are days when I even begin to wonder just how lucid he is.

Gone are his big dreams and grand schemes. In their place are minimal and simplistic goals. Gone are the witty jokes that I'd have to ponder over for a minute before comprehending. In their stead are worn out and tired lines which are not the least bit funny. Gone are the manners which he once was a stickler for and whose importance he constantly impressed onto my sister and I (the result is that to this day, I have a mild fear of meeting my friends' parents). What is left is ill-tempered, rude irrationality which he inflicts on everyone. Gone is the charm and the charisma, all of which have been replaced by acid remarks, criticism and all-around negativity. There is no more sharpness, energy and joy in our conversations-- only constant repetitions and reiterations of things already covered, or negativity, or arrogance.

I know that everything he is now is a combined result of age as well as the effects of the stroke and that I should be tolerant, patient and understanding of him. But once again, I am currently still hoping that somewhere in there is still my old dad. The cool one. The happier one. The "good cop" in the family and the one that once brought so much excitement to an otherwise dull-as-dishwater family.

While my relationship with my dad is strained, I am still constantly working on it. Despite his current state, I still hold dear old images and moments-- of him singing me my lullaby "Windmills of Your Mind" when I was a toddler, our little father-and-son adventures such as driving from Antipolo to Manila in an overheating car, the fact that he was the one who always took time off work to take me home from school when I was sick, the one who gave me a more-than-sizeable allowance in High School and College, and my overall benefactor who gave in to most of my whims and tolerated my capriciousness.

Despite what he is now, I can never question the unfailing and unconditional support and love he has shown me all my life. Or that once again, he has affected me in a big way.

And despite what he is now also, I know that the dad I know is still there constantly and continuously trying to reach out to a surly son who rejects him at times.

I had a dream 2 weeks ago, that my dad was dying. But I remember in that dream that his last words were that he loved me. I woke up with a start after that. It was a startling realization.

The stroke 6 months ago was a shocker as much as it was an eye-opener. And 6 months later, it still is. And while my struggle is still a work-in-progress, it should also serve as a change in outlook: while my dad is the way he is, I'm thankful that I still live in a world where I have my dad. My personal super hero. And really, that should be enough.

Tonight's very steady gimmick (you know you're getting old when a Saturday night consists of dinner and coffee instead of beer and parties) brings to mind a little sentiment and the song "Old Friends" by Everything But the Girl.

Old friendships, like a fine wine, get better with age. I've known these guys for a good 13 years. From polo shirts and black school pants, we find still bonded over the passing of the years. We've been through college, through girls, through jobs. And while some have faded away over the years, the majority is still there and still strong.

And I guess we're ready for the Next Step. My friend and his girlfriend are now engaged. The first out of the 10 of us. We're at that point in life.

The preferences have changed, some of us have receding hairlines (we are at that stage), we have grown more sideways than upwards in recent years, but it's a nice feeling to be with the people who have seen you through the formative years. And I know that while this bunch does not have too much opportunity to get together, these will be the people I will still hang with in my graying years.

Thanks Ivy Blossom for the dinner!

Idle time in the office leads the idle mind to search for the most random things.

Tonight, I finally found the song which has been haunting me (the back of my mind anyways) for the good part of 19 years.

It was the opening song for "Working Girl", that sitcom with Sandra Bullock at the lead. Memory has helped me retain strains of the song but I never figured out what the title was.

It's "Let the River Run" by Carly Simon.

That's one mystery of life down.

The world, my world, is slowly righting itself.

Things won't be the same, of course. But at least I'm going to have some semblance of the way things were.

For one, I have my single life back. Coffee or beer with close friends, a regained sense of personal space, more "me time" than I can imagine, and maybe the chance to figure out what I really want out of relationships and out of life.

Last night, we got our closure. We finally had "the talk". Thought of "the talk" was something I was actually dreading. And to a certain extent, avoiding. I was expecting angry words and tears and pleas and animosity and hate and all that sort and everything negative that I try to avoid (a Pandora's box, if you will) to unleash itself on my peace-loving, negative-hating persona.

But there was none of that.

Time apart has allowed each of us to make our peace. And to make solid, rational decisions.

Time has cooled the anger and made the hate simmer.

In the end, all the anticipation, planning and scenario plotting of "the talk" was for naught. I was thinking a dinner. Or finding a quiet conference room in the office after work. We ended up having a clandestine meeting in the fire escape of our building.

And it was amiable. I told her I didn't deserve her. I told her that she deserved someone who worshipped the ground she walked on. And someone who would take care of her and love her the way she needs to be taken care of and loved. I couldn't give her that. I've faced the world alone for so long that I really don't know anymore how to open myself up to anybody.

There were no tears. In the end, I asked if we could at least be friends. Bare minimum. She agreed. And I hugged her, maybe for the last time. I apologized that I couldn't be the boyfriend that she needed. And it ended there.

It sunk in last night on the way home that we were over. Never would what was between us ever be again. And while it was all for the best, it made me sad all the same.

But yeah, for both us, it was all for the best.

* * *

I was chatting with my trainer last night about whatever. I probably might've let off a little steam about my predicament. And my trainer shared a bit-- he was a new dad. His son with his girlfriend was 2 months old, and he couldn't get enough of the little tyke. And he was due to marry his girlfriend soon. At 24 years old.

Of course his situation wasn't the world's most ideal setting. Yet he had something that I've been wanting for the longest time-- the opportunity to settle down with "the one" and start a family. He's already where I am still struggling to figure out how to get to. And halfway there, I begin to think of how empty life's starting to get. Sure, I get the promotions and I'm able to somehow afford trips, adventures and a lot of material things. But in the end, I go home to an empty condo. Then I begin to wonder if my priorities are focused on the things that really, really matter.

I didn't feel like going to work. So I didn't. And I haven't for the past 2 days.

It's great being idle. It's especially guiltless because my boss is at this 4 day seminar (in other words, no phone calls following up on whatnot)and because all my projects are out of my hands for now. So really, I'm free.

And I've been enjoying. My phone has been silent aside from the odd friendly text. I check my office e-mail occasionally and nothing urgent has been cropping up. I spend the days like I used to when I was a bum. DVD (our cable got cut because our helper never gave my folks the statement of account), internet, sleep. No, I don't even take care of personal business. This is, in all respects, just a breather. A short pause. A minute where I can enjoy the pervading quiet.

I haven't stopped moving since I got back from my Boracay break. After 5 days of being with people, of socializing, of Client servicing and of partying, I do need a break. Don't get me wrong-- Boracay this year rocked. A far cry from the torture that I endured last year. This year's realization is that the event is actually FUN. Especially when you're looking at it from a guest's point of view. Of course, since we flew to Boracay in the middle of the week, I still had a few projects running. So since I couldn't really leave them in the air, I would park myself and my laptop in the cafe of Crystal Sand to work, and I'd only allow myself to have fun when my work for the day was accomplished. So yeah, the Boracay trip was not a free ticket. It could've been, but not for me.

I'm also not anxious to go back to the office, for reasons that are rather apparent. It also helps that I'll be leaving for Dagupan next week and Cebu the week after. Let me just say that it's going to be easier on everyone that way. Though I know that I have some "clean up business" to take care of.

In any case, too much idle time can drive you crazy. Day 2 and I'm bored out of my skull. I'm going to work tomorrow-- raring to go tackle some tasks and ah well, face the music.

This is what I've become since breaking the heart of someone whose brand essence is "The Office Darling".

It's been 1 week since I came from the Boracay. A week and a half is the unofficial breakup over text. The clean-up (a.k.a. "The Talk") will happen tomorrow.

All this time, I've been silent. While the aggrieved party has been drinking, crying her eyes out and bawling on any willing shoulder and then some, I have held my tongue. This despite one of my favorite CDs sidling up to me the other day saying "I heard what happened. And I'm hearing not so good things about you". I chose the high road, opted to remain silent, left under the pretense of work and said that I would probably talk about things in another venue.

With the gossip hotbed that is the office, I know that Mr. Congeniality is not winning any popularity votes or favors at the moment. Though I wish it wasn't so. People can give me hell about my screwed up personal life but do not involve work in any of this. It's my misfortune that I opted for an office relationship. And now I have to deal with the fall-out.

In any case, I plead "guilty".

There is really no one else to blame but myself for this "mess" that I've gotten myself in. And shame on me that other people have gotten hurt because of it. I'll take it.

While knowing that the blame lies with myself, I don't really know where the relationship went awry. In retrospect, you never really know what you got 'till its gone. As girlfriends go, the "ex" was everything any normal, hot-blooded guy could've asked for. If there was a course on "Conventional Girlfriend-ing 101", she would've aced it with flying colors. She was caring, she was sweet, she was selfless, she was kind, she was understanding. I have just let go of something a million guys would be clamoring for.

But maybe there are just guys on this Earth not meant for conventional girlfriends. And maybe I'm one of them.

Sure, I was happy. I was happy being with her. I was happy being in a relationship. She took care of me and saw to my every need. She was supportive of me, my hobbies and my foray into a healthy lifestyle. She was understanding of my job and lifestyle.

But as it became more apparent in the last month of the 2-month relationship, there is so much truth brimming from the cliche "It's not you, it's me".

I began to feel that we really didn't fit. Maybe it was the 6 year age gap. Maybe it was the different perspective on life. Maybe it was that some people are just not meant to be in a relationship. I don't know. There are a million "maybes" and "what ifs" in the air.

I do know though that coming from my independent, "I-don't-think-about-anyone-but-myself" lifestyle, I began to feel claustrophobic. Maybe it was my independent self rebelling. But the feeling was very similar to my scuba diving panic attack 2 years ago. I felt I couldn't breathe, no matter what respirator was fed to me and all I wanted to do was end the dive and struggle to the surface.

The force of her love overwhelmed me. It was not her fault at all. Some people just have this huge, amazing capacity to love. And then there are people like myself. People who have been going at things on their own for so long that the concept of facing the world with someone beside you is totally foreign. Alien even, if you will.

I know that I was once young, sappy and idealistic. And I know that she would have made the college version of myself a very happy person. But the sad truth is, I'm not that guy anymore. The real world happened. I have gone through heart break. I have gone through hunger. I have gone through wringer, professionally. And I think at this point, I'm looking for someone on the same page as I am.

Historically, I need a guide. A mentor. Someone who I can learn from. Especially at this point in my life when I am embracing maturity. It is only in tragic retrospect that I realize that I need someone who I can look up to-- because while I am independent, I'm not that great at charting my own course.

It's a shame. We had a million superficial similarities that actually served as a starting point. Unfortunately, where when they could have been a foundation into something amazing, they stopped there.

And perhaps I'm not as ready to settle down or ready for a new adventure as I thought I was.

We had so much promise. And now, as part of the fall out, I have to contend with being "The Bad Guy". I now do not have the face to show all the people she introduced me to as part of her life-- her family, her friends, her co-workers, her brother's friends.

I remember wanting big change in my life. But when it came, I didn't welcome it. And when it was there, I felt myself longing for familiar routines that dissipated. While the break-up does spell a return to the old ways, there are definitely certain things of her that I will miss. I will miss that intoxicating whiff of nicotine mixed with perfume, or driving with one hand as my other is around her, or being cared for. And that intense feeling of being loved.

I am thankful though that I still have my friends. My defaults. People who will stick with me, even if they know I was the asshole. I find comfort in this.

And I face another week of being the "kontrabida" of the month. I know that other people have been roasted publicly for bigger things, but in my current universe, I'm the evil one for the time being and I'm sure that there are several who think of crucifying me when they see me. Thankfully, time and tide does patch things up, heal wounds and makes memories fade. And maybe several months from now, I'll be back to being the unspectacular me that I once was.

And while dealing with that, inside I know that I had love in my hands and I was stupid enough to let it go. And Heaven help me, I don't know where on Earth I'll be able to find love again. If at all.

She's out of my life.

And I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

I don't know whether to live or die.


Strangely, I'm in Boracay and I'm fine.

The cracks are showing and I can't put my finger on it.

These are things that I still refuse to admit to myself. But then again, as proven time and time again, I was never good at admitting the truth to myself.

Yesiree. There's trouble in paradise, just as I had predicted.

Sugar, we're going down.

Since I gave up Jill, my beloved partner in crime last Tuesday night, I have been highly dependent on Metro Manila’s public transport system. And 4 days into it, it’s not all that bad.

Admittedly, I do miss the little conveniences. I miss being in control of my time. I miss having a locker-on-wheels, of sorts. There have been a few times over the past few days where while walking to work, I felt like a Christmas tree because of the number of bags hanging from my shoulders and neck. Tough because I’ve got my work bag, my laptop bag and my gym bag with my running clothes. I also hate not knowing where my next ride is coming from and that my movements are so limited because I don’t have access to wheels that will take me from Point A to Point B.

Speaking of restricted movement, I’m still worrying about my mobility over the next few days because I’ve got to cart off stuff from my condo to Antipolo in preparation for Boracay this coming week. Or that I might not even get to go home tonight because it’s such a hassle to go back to my condo via taxi and then call for another taxi to get me to the FX terminal in the dead of the night. Why taxi? Because my condo is the farthest point from the gate of Valle Verde 1. Hell, if I had the opportunity to walk (and save), I would’ve done it long ago!

And tonight. I came from the gym. I’m working on an AVP in Makati. I need to be in Ortigas for a haircut. Then I might have coffee with a friend in High Street. And all the while, I will be toting my laptop bag and my gym bag. Aw come on!

The perks though are that my money goes a long way. And I can drink all I want without really worrying about driving home drunk.

Yesterday, when Jay and I were walking around Legaspi Village looking for food, he goes, ”Shet. I miss your car.”. And I had to agree. Since it was labor day and most restaurants within Legaspi Village were closed, we were going street by street with an alcoholic haze from the previous night’s drinking session, in search of any restaurant with soup.

And yeah, I like being the guy with the car. I like being behind the wheel, I like the open road and I like being depended on for transpo. It has almost always been my brand essence since I was given my first car back in 2003.

Before that, I was the independent commuter boy. I took pride in muscling my way into an FX during rush hour, or knowing how to do the whole sabit thing on a jeep, back-riding in a tricycle or keeping my balance in a bus. I liked commuting. I’ve been doing it all my life. But when you are introduced to the luxury of having your own car, it never is the same again. And when you know that you still have that option, you’ll constantly search for it.

But right now, I’m steady. Commuting, while at times being inconvenient and difficult, is refreshing.

I have sworn that May won’t end without me behind the wheel of a newer car. But at this point, I’m enjoying the ride.

Tonight, I said goodbye to a very dear friend.

It was a very hard decision. A decision that took a year to make. A decision of which thinking about has caused sleepless nights, turmoil, endless debates, bouts of sadness, endless vacillation, moments of panic, frustration and anger. It was painful, it was very difficult, but it needed to be done.

I have to say that at this point, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. It felt like someone had just wrenched my heart out.

Tonight, I finally sold my car. I sold my friend “Jill”.

It’s not easy to say goodbye to something that had been my constant companion for the past 3 years. It has seen me through the best and the worst of times. We’ve been through the best and the worst of each other. Together, we conquered storms and floods, hellish traffic and the open road. Jill has seen me to places close to my heart—Baguio, Lucban, Anilao, La Luz, Tagaytay and home. We’ve had countless adventures. Jill has gotten me home safely more times than I deserve or even give her credit for. She has been with me through the highs and the lows of the past 3 years.

More than anyone, I can say that Jill was my partner in crime.

So really, it wasn’t easy to give her up just like that.

Last night, I got a plastic case and cleared out all my belongings from Jill. And I did it with a really heavy heart. As I was scouring every corner of the car to remove all the knickknacks that have accumulated into her corners over the years, I was whispering to her, telling her that I loved her and that no matter what, she would always, ALWAYS be a part of me. And that I was sure that her new owner would take much, much better care of her than I ever could. And that I hoped that she would be much happier in her new home.

In truth, she didn’t deserve me and I didn’t deserve her. I was the one who constantly drove drunk. It was my doing that led her to crash into a wall back then. If that hadn’t happened, I’m sure that she would still be intact and mine up to now. It was me who was busy looking for songs on my iPod that led me to rear-end a Crosswind. And it was me who side-swiped a jeepney, once again because I was drunk.

My relationship with Jill has always been rather turbulent. I couldn’t really take to a car who ran out of gas on me in the middle of Kalayaan on my way to work or even in Taytay at 3 in the morning. Incidentally, her battery ran out on me on the same spot as well a few months later. Despite these little dust-ups though, she was my car. She was my default. Over the past year, Jill was terribly difficult. Despite regular maintenance check-ups, she had an overheating problem that no Honda casa could seem to diagnose. In truth, she had been to Honda more than 7 times over the course of a year. When I drove Jill up to Baguio, she overheated on us despite getting out of Honda Libis 2 days earlier. And things began escalating over the past month. Her suspension was making a lot of noise and it needed to be changed. Her transmission was getting sticky and the overheating was at its finest.

The fact that she also needed to be registered this April meant that it was really a sign—she had to go.

Finding buyers was easy. They were a dime a dozen. The moment I gave notice that I was selling my car, there was never any shortage of people interested. In fact, they were clamoring for my car. I must’ve shown her to about 5 people, all willing to give me cold cash the following day. It was the letting go that was difficult. I just couldn’t.

In fact, the guy who I finally made the transaction with got pretty frustrated because it took a week and a lot of texts and calls on his end before I finally steeled myself and told him that he could have the car.

It was tonight. I was in a meeting. I realized that it was now or never. I would never really be ready to give her up. So I closed my eyes and sent out one of the hardest text messages ever in my life. I told the guy that yes, I would meet him tonight and that he could have my car.

It was a bit cathartic. The past 2 weeks have been speeding by and I have been very distracted with the thought of letting go of my Jill hanging over my head. Saying goodbye is not one of my strengths.

And that was it. I was going to give her up. And not just her the car, but the part of me that was ingrained in her for the past 3 years. It began when she was turned over to me at the parking lot of Mapua, and years later, here I was ready to move on. Jill saw me grow up. Jill saw me change. And she was part of that.

Before leaving Rockwell with my boss before I would turn her over to her new owner, I asked my boss to take a final picture of me with Jill. It wasn’t meant to be. My boss’ phone was empty and so were both my phones.

I drove my boss to the production house before going to meet the buyer. Perhaps it was to prolong my last moments with my car. I told my boss, ”Do you realize that you were the first passenger and the last passenger of this car?”. He was. The first time I drove to the office with her, he was with me. Before getting off, my boss stroked the dashboard and said a few final words to her as well before bidding her goodbye.

During the drive to SM where I would meet the buyer, I tried to memorize every detail of Jill. I tried to take in every detail that had become so familiar and so comfortable over the past 3 years. Her smell, her orange dash lights, her fuel gauge that was perpetually low (my bad), her unfailingly cool aircon, her Clarion radio, the feel of the transmission in my hand, the dirty mirror. These are things that had grown on me, and as of last night, things that will never be again.

Once again, I talked to her. This time, cheesy as it may sound, tears did well up in my eyes. I told her to be good. I told her that there are no goodbyes, just see you later. I hoped I would see her around in great shape. And I thanked her for her loyaltym for keeping me safe and for the 3 years and 35,000 kilometers she covered with me. I thanked her for the moments I’ve had in her. Drives with my parents, talks with my best friends, foolishness, drunken moments, how my girlfriend and I fell in love in her and whatnot. And I told her that I was very sure that her owner would love her and take care of her much more than I ever could.

I may sound a little off my rocker here. But like I said, change is not my best friend and goodbyes aren’t my strongest suit. Especially for something that was a constant for me. Despite everything, I did love her.

In the end, I told myself that Jill was only a car. A machine. A machine with no emotion. No feeling. And that I had a screw loose getting attached to a car. And I think it was that thought that made me actually push through with the deal.

We sat in Jill for 20 minutes in the parking lot between SM and Intercon, the buyer and I. It was probably my last time to sit in that driver’s seat. We exchanged papers, we counted money, I showed him the OR, we exchanged small talk a bit. Two of his four daughters were in the backseat. And then the moment came. It was time to leave.

I had to go back to work, the guy had to go get his pregnant wife.

I crossed my fingers that Jill would now be witness to even more monumental events. This was a new family. And I hoped that she would make them happy and keep them safe.

After one last caress, I shook hands with the guy and walked away. And I looked back just once, bidding Jill my final farewell, as she sat there in the parking lot. By then, it was beginning to sink in that she was no longer mine.

Goodbye Jill. We had our run and it was a good one. Go and burn rubber, highway star.

I realize that I am a pessimist.

These days, a lot of things are coming up roses for me.

I have a girlfriend and the way things are going, we're in it for the long haul.

I'm on the verge of buying a new(er) car.

Last Wednesday, I signed off on my evaluation that's going to get me a promotion.

Considering that the year started off terribly (it could probably go down in my life's history as the worst beginnings ever), the days that followed are surely making up for it somehow.

Things are really going great. Too great even, that I'm getting wary.

I'm not used to so many good things happening to me all at once. And I don't want to get used to it. It's like a great, happy dream.

The sad thing though is that I'm already bracing myself for the fall.