I have a hard time staying in the company of people who whine and complain and ridicule. There were times when I tried to be patient and stayed on, but I remember leaving the moment the conversation shifted to themselves being more superior or more beautiful or more affluent than others. I think it's a, put bluntly, mindf*ck.

It leaves you wondering, how in the world is it possible that one feels good about himself by putting other people down. Maybe I'm just naive, or plain stupid. But I have a hard time reconciling affirmation of one's self with demeaning other people. They just don't fit together like fish out of water.

Good, I always try to give a person the benefit of the doubt. I console myself that, deep down, they might have redeeming values stored somewhere. It may not be obvious or worse, it may have been put to use very sparingly, but nevertheless, it's there.

================

And so, after all, man is good. The more I think about it, the more I firm up my belief that, really, man is, by nature, good. We just don't go around the town hurting or killing anyone in sight. Even the most callous of mercenaries would have this innate sense of goodness to desire living peacefully free from trouble and disease.

Funny, but this occurred to me on my way back to work today from lunch. I don't know how I ended up looking at that lady and noticed her unbuttoned blouse. Looking back now, I could have done the worst and uttered unpleasant remarks, but you instead choose to reserve unsavory comments to yourself and quietly hope that some Good Samaritan would do what you failed to do.

===========

But how exactly do you tell a lady that she has some buttons not securely "fastened." I have listed a menu of possible liners, but I'm not sure if they will be helpful. You gotta tell me if they will bring more trouble.

1. I'm sorry Miss, but some of your buttons are misguided.
2. I think your butt-ons are not in their butt-holes.
3. Miss, I wanted to ask, "Where did you buy your roaming buttons?
4. I'm sorry for being the one to tell you, but you're buttons were led astray.
5. Where did you get those buttons? I think they want to go home.
6. Is it also you or just your buttons who change partners?
7. Miss, you better button up. You're inside the Pope's residence.
8. Did you just come from the boob clinic? Where is it located?
9. I know you have it, you don't have to let them loose.
10. Miss, I think you're wearing the wrong bra size.

So tell me, how do you say it?

I don't know where Ernie is now. He must have gone back to his province in the north. Or maybe he's still around in the mad city somewhere. Maybe he's in some foreign land. I just hope he's not back in the dark, smoky, dimly-lit square room where he worked before.

The last time I saw him, he was puffing his cigarette. It was around ten in the evening and it was dark, but this unusual way of smoking was visible that night. He would breathe heavily, each time filling his chest with as much air and burned tobacco. He was restless but grieving at the same time, tired but hated rest and sleep. All of us there understood. Ernie has just been out from the hospital after several months of taking care our friend R., who, by then, was laid in a modest wooden coffin and placed in the middle of the room where we were.

All of us there that night who really knew Ernie's story silently sat and fought back tears. We were humbled by what he has done. It was ironic that he, of all people and all of 23 years old that time, would teach us the ultimate lesson on selfless giving and unconditional love.

Our friend R. met Ernie in some very unusual circumstances. They met one night because Ernie had what R. needed. They became friends soon after and Ernie would be regular in our Sunday lunches and afternoon coffees and sometimes, Friday dinner and drinks. We felt awkward initially because we didn't know exactly what he was. Was he there to run errands for us? Was he there as the butler, concierge? In one of those parties, R. suddenly felt that piercing jolt in the chest and had our doctor friend who was in that party do an outright check up. A visit to the hospital first hour tomorrow morning was non-negotiable, our doctor friend said. R obliged.

And that was the start of several months of practically living in the hospital. In each of these months that followed, it was only Ernie who was there all the time all the way. He would be shy to reveal, but we found out he practically lived like a patient making the hospital his home. He never left R.'s hospital room. He did all that a private nurse would normally do, and more: bathe, handle medicines, story tell.

It was during these times that they naturally became very close. So close that their lives were touched. Ernie, without the slightest tinge of feeling embarrassed, was deeply touched with R.'s gesture of teaching him how to speak English. It was in one of those long nights that R asked Ernie to lead in praying the rosary. He was too shy to admit that he didn't know how it was done. So R. very patiently went through each mystery teaching Ernie the correct way of saying the prayer. And every night they would do the same until such time that Ernie mastered it so perfectly. Ernie didn't know any other English up until that time. I don't know if it was a joke. Be he insisted he was being truthful.

Two nights before he died, Ernie disclosed, R. made two unusual requests. First, he asked that his first-born son, if ever he'd have one, be named after our friend. No explanation was given. Secondly, R. asked Ernie to send for somebody who knows how to cut hair. R. wanted that Ernie fashioned his hairstyle similar to the short cut that R. was sporting that time. Ernie had a hard time looking for one, but he managed in the end. So soon after, the nurses were joking around, they were having a hard time distinguishing one from the other. But Ernie and R. were happy in their newfound connection.

R. died a day after they had their haircut. Ernie was the only one in the room as usual and he panicked when he saw the flatlines in the monitor. His screams calling for the nurses filled the quiet hospital hallways. All the nurses, who have become their friends, rushed to the room and tried to revive R. Tubes were drawn, R.'s chests were pumped, every monitor observed. Ernie was inconsolable. He cried like he had never cried before. Their nurse friends took turns trying to comfort Ernie since they too were teary-eyed and didn't want to show Ernie. Finally, Rose, Ernie's closest nurse friend, hugged him and whispered, "Let R. go. R deserves to rest." Only then did Ernie calm down.

During the wake, I was happy to see that R.'s family acknowledged Ernie's selfless service. All those times that R. needed round-the-clock attention and care, this young guy who didn't even finish high school and who wasn't even related to R. offered himself. It was the ultimate example of selfless giving. That's why, all throughout the wake, we would have this quiet admiration and respect for R. I personally was so humbled that I never even bothered to ask myself if I can do the same. I am not sure.

R. was interred in a city south of Manila. R.'s family was gracious enough to pay for Ernie's plane fare so he can attend the funeral service. To this day, I refuse to know what exactly happened that time. I don't know how Ernie said goodbye to R., but that's not important.

What matters to me, and what I hold dear to this day, is the lesson Ernie taught me how to be selfless in giving. And how love, when genuine and sincere, doesn't care if the object of our affection is a man or a woman. Love is love, relationship is relationship regardless of whether it's between a man or a woman, one woman and another woman, or one man and another man.

Like in Rudy's story.

Whenever I see my friend Dindin being very affectionate towards her children Luigi and Teresa, I melt. And in deep appreciation, I wish that all mothers are like her. Whenever I chance upon Luigi clowning around Mommy Dindin in wide grin, I get misty eyed. And in quiet prayer, I wished that I had that chance.

You see, I grew up in a completely different environment. I'm not sure exactly what, but there was something in the air during the 80's which convinced parents that the proper way to bring up kids is much like issuing executive orders. They lay down the stone tablets detailing their rules and everyone is expected to strictly follow regardless of the pain and discomfort they brought. One is never allowed to question the wisdom of these rules, much less argue how they are interpreted. They don't cover just one aspect of life like behaving inside the home, but seemingly every corner of one's life. What was sad was this: Most parents during these times insist that there was only one way to deal with these rules, and this was to quietly submit yourself to them.

There's no point trying to undo things now. Many years have gone by and some damage have been done. But one thing is clear, at least for me. I feel strongly about reclaiming what otherwise would have been a very loving childhood full of devotion and warm affection by making sure every child experiences love, friendship, acceptance, and endearment.

In my every waking moment, I subscribe to this truth: To make this world a better place to live in, we should start with the kids. Only when they are brought up in loving family environment from loving couple in a loving relationship can we ensure that the love will be in the air for the years to come.

In closing, I pray this: That I'll still be around when Luigi and Teresa will finally become parents. That's a long while yet. But I'm sure they will be as nice and loving as their parents.

Cheers!

People come and go in our lives. Love is won and sometimes lost in no time. Hearts are conquered and bleed in defeat afterwards. You win some, you lose some. This is life, this is living.

But not all departures in life are disheartening and numbing. There are a few that are noble, profound, and lovely. Like some in my life.

I grew up with my parents almost always lamenting that they would only enjoy me for 16 years. I would often hear my Mom say that, and I couldn't understand a bit. It was unthinkable to think of death at a young age or even the slightest idea that she has long known what my lifeline was. It was harsh, sometimes cruel, I thought. However, I understood everything in April of 1989 when I left home after high school to pursue college in the city. It was my first real separation from my family and they were naturally anxious. They feared that a strange land will defeat me and leave me biting the dust. Good, nothing of that sort happened. On the contrary, I think I did well. And so, I always say, my life's first departure story was noble. I left my birthplace to prepare myself for life's demands and I did well.

A few months after leaving home, I took on another big leap in my life. I had a friend in the college dorm who was attending a Baptist service and he sort of tagged me along one Sunday morning. I don't know what got to me, but I obliged. For some people, this was difficult to fathom considering my family brought me up a Catholic and I was even an altar boy for seven years, something that should have glued me. But as fate would have it, I joined my friend Terry that Sunday morning. I didn't know I was going to be there for a good two hours of worship, but I had fun. I enjoyed their kind of worship where the Message was the focus of the entire service, and not some elaborate rituals which almost always fail to uplift any worship experience.

For the years that followed, I would regularly attend that Baptist church and even joined some of their activities. For one, I sang in the choir. I gained one of my closest friends from there, a friendship that has lasted for almost 13 years now. And so, I say that my small yet courageous move to depart from what I have grown accustomed to gave me immense joy, and that was profound.

I am patiently waiting for one more departure, this time lovely. And, if possible, one that lasts me for life. I don't know what it will be --- migration, matrimony, Moon, Mars --- I really don't know. But I pray it's going to be lovely this time.

I've never really thought about it until last Sunday night. The funny thing about it was that it came after some heated discussion with my new neighbor. I think I make a good labor arbiter or, as I have always thought, a good lawyer.

I moved in to this new place two weeks ago. It's not incredibly huge, but it's comfortable enough for me and the maid. She occupies the smaller room; I got the bigger one (of course!). She gets a tiled floor, I have the parquet. We both get French windows. It's on the fourth floor near the service stairs, the second farthest unit from the elevator lobby. The common space facing my unit is huge enough for me to place a mobile coffeetable and two chairs where one can enjoy late night conversations or brewed coffee on early Sunday mornings while reading the papers. We don't have any tall structure blocking the airflow, so we get a generous supply of refreshing oxygen all the time.

Except that my neighbors are not really refreshing. When I moved in, they already have this folding table and three stools stationed in front of my unit. It may be a common area meaning any tenant can have access to it, but the fact is, it's in front of my unit. I can do whatever I please there. I can even sleep there naked if I want to (but that's another story). I can bear with the tables and chairs, but I erupt in anger and frustration when I realize they obviously lack any form of exposure in the field of propriety. Like, how in the world can they be so dumb, how can some people be so amazingly stupid? They knew I was a new tenant; they should have taken those right away without anyone telling them. I don't care if they were chummy-chummy with the old tenant and they were allowed a place there. Fact is, new tenant = new agreement. Simple as that.

And so for a week, I intentionally didn't talk to them and instead waited for them to voluntarily take those out and respect my area. They didn't. I stretched the little patience I have for one more week hoping things will change. Nothing came. So I asked my lawyer friend to do the talking for me. He graciously obliged. I don't know how he approached them but they were very confrontational. I was home that time but decided not to go with my friend to face them. I may just end up in the papers the next day as the killer of my neighbor's sick mom. Not really my idea of glamorous publicity.

Anyways, I let my friend and my neighbor with her mom yank and yank at each other, almost slithering each other's neck to death. I, on the other hand, was behind the curtains doing what a stenographer does in a courtroom battle, trying to listen to every word said. After a few minutes, there was a lull. My lawyer friend looked for me and suggested that it was best that I talk to Julia.

When I walked over to where they were, Julia was seated in one of the chairs, trying to look composed and calm. I offered my hand and introduced myself. I was burning inside, but I tried hard to be civil and warm in my hope that something good will turn out that night. I made sure I told her my frustration about their seeming lack of consideration and sense of propriety with them not even asking permission from me and, instead, be so callous. She apologized.

To make sure we don't spark to death any longer, I tried to talk about other things like which province she's from, her daughter (she's a single mom), bits of work, and, believe or not, christmas. The whole time, my lawyer-friend seated with us silently while listening to our every story. Amazingly, Julia and I hit it off well and agreed that we should be friends. I allowed her to continue using the space for her table and she offered that I use it too. I set conditions for her to continue enjoy that space (two of them: absolutely no drinking there and no smoking) and she agreed to them. Now, we're OK. She sent me a plateful of dessert and noodles last night, personal delivery. I asked my maid to cook pancakes this morning and return Julia's plate with some of it.

I thought I should end this with some thoughts I got from one of my readings. It's helpful to know how to properly and intelligently fight --- be they husbands, wives, business partners, bestfriends, boyfriends, girlfriends, family members.

-----------
Fights are inevitable, and how you fight probably indicates whether your love will last. But don't be afraid to fight. Fight fairly. This means:

 Count to ten before you start.
 Stick to the issue.
 Don't dredge up ancient history.
 Avoid put-downs and name-calling.
 Nix the sarcasm and camp.
 Speak your mind, and give him/her the chance to speak, too.
 Avoid profanity.
 Don't throw anything.
 No violence. Ever.
 Don't change the subject.
 Don't pretend you don't understand what he/she's saying.
 Don't mimic him/her.
 Don't bully him/her.
 Assume nothing.
 Don't ask your friends to take sides.
 Don't hit below the belt.
 Be specific about your complaints.
 Don't threaten to leave him/her to get your way unless you truly mean it.
 An unfinished fight will only return another day. Fight to the finish unless you're merely fighting for fighting's sake, Then, stop.

Eight months ago, I went home to Basco in grief to bury my 101-year old great grandmother Lola Laget. Had she lived today, she would have been the oldest person alive in my province. I'm not really sure if that's an accomplishment anyone would like to beat, but it sure is something.

Let me talk about my Lola Laget and me today on her birthday, my little way of paying tribute to one life lived.

When every elderly person is identified with folly and disease, my Lola Laget has remained a delightful antithesis. Up to the time she died, she never failed to surprise us with her faultless memory, impeccable taste, and pure love for life. You will soon see why.

I grew up in the province. Deep in my heart, I am probinsiyano. And because the place where I came from is nearer Taiwan than mainland Luzon, that made it more different and interesting. You grew up probably with Star Wars and Voltes V and a bit of Tom and Jerry on the side. I grew up with war stories. But these are not of the kind that scares and disheartens people. These are the stories that inspire and keep you in awe long after they have been told.

Kitchen and veranda

My fondest memories as a kid mostly happened inside the kitchen or the veranda. I spent many nights as a kid sitting by my Lola's bed or in the kitchen where she prepared dinner. Once in a while, she would ask me about school or my cousins. But most of the time she would relate her life story, each time with so much passion you'd think it was better off made into a movie.

That morning of December 8 in 1941, she says, started gloomy. They just came from church when people started to notice countless ships by the bay. It was the first time they have ever seen fleet of ships in their life, and they wanted to know what was happening. And since they were all good-natured and hospitable people, they rushed to the shore to meet them. Minutes later, the first bomb was fired. My lola lost no time. She quickly got everyone in the family to travel on foot six kilometers to the next town, up in a farm where they thought they'd be hard to find.

And so they were there, her six children including my grandfather who was her eldest. That farm served as their home for the years that came until the war ended. That farm was where my mother was born two years later.

She fondly recalls, she was fortunate to have been born into a landed family. She rode horses when she was young to help out shepherding cattle by the hundreds. She remembers enjoying admiration of many young men as well as women. This wasn't hard to believe. She had long hair, high-bridged nose, and fair skin. She soon met my great grandfather who was a pure Spanish. Because he belonged to the family of the first Spanish government head in my province, they were wealthy and had so much influence.

But they had an unhappy marriage. Stories I gathered disclosed that it was only my great grandmother who remained devoted to the end while my great grandfather gambled a lot, sired children from different women, and failed to pay taxes. And so, little by little, the landholdings dwindled down to the last prized possession. If Cinderella had the rags to riches story, Lola Laget had the exact opposite.

She chose to be happy

But she was not bitter. She then began working in the field to raise her children and keep the family together. Many times I have heard it said, if our family remains intact to this day, Lola Laget should be credited for it. No one ever heard her cry, or worse, blame anyone, during those times. When every one else were chiding her husband, she was never tempted to say anything hurtful. I'm sure she had sleepless nights and it was likely her pillows were drenched in tears too. But, for her, it was a different story every day, each morning.

This was how we grew up. It may not be your idea of perfect childhood, it may completely be irrelevant today. But all of us have nurtured a close relationship with Lola Laget.

For instance, long before I ever started working, there was an unspoken tradition in the family. The moment you start earning, you don't get to hold and enjoy your first paycheck. As our modest way of appreciating what she has done for the family, everyone's first paycheck is wholeheartedly given to her. All of it. It is a sweet vindication for her and for most mothers, that life's adversities do not cripple you.

<to be continued>

I had watery eyes last night while listening to Michael Buble's rendition of the great standard "You'll Never Know." He came to Manila for a one-night concert and I got one of the better seats, a divine treat.

The song may be old, but pretty much familiar to me. I have heard my Dad sing it for so many times growing up. He would be on guitar and he'd be surrounded by his friends, sometimes my uncles. But my Dad would outperform everyone with his crisp crooner baritone voice. They would mostly sing Sinatra or Mathis or Nat King Cole or, sometimes even Tom Jones. So one can say, I grew up with standards being a standard in the house repertoire.

That's probably the reason why I have a hard time relating with pop music. For me, the pop beat is so disturbingly unnatural, detached, and devoid of the sincere and heartfelt music of an era gone by. It's much like eating chicken with the usual knife-and-fork utensil, something that takes out what otherwise would have been a sumptuous dining experience when the utensils are discarded and our two hands are made to do the works. A chicken is not chicken unless eaten with the hands.

Watching Buble last night made me pray. I was so awed with Michael's gift of voice and talent that I so humbly praised God. I said, "God, you're good!" It was heartwarming to see Michael relish the experience of performing before the Manila audience, without the slightest air of arrogance. The voice was undoubtedly refreshing, something that's new yet timeless. He admits, they sometimes not take themselves too seriously. But with their music, it's a completely different story.

I hope Michael Buble will go a long, long way. As a testament to God's goodness. Oh yes, at least Michael and I shared one thing similar that time. I think we both got misty-eyed, him wiping his eyes a few times in the dark unlit stage while I was trying my best not to let any tear flow. He fondly remembers his Grandad, his bestfriend.

And I missed my Dad, whom I wished was my bestfriend.

There are two conditions when living in the Philippines becomes funny and a bit absurd: You're past 30 years old and you're still single.

I have heard of countless horrible stories of friends and friends of friends who encounter this silly thing. All of them have stable jobs, live independently, well-educated, have healthy social life, self-confident. Despite these, they face frowning faces of relatives during parties and family reunions when inquired of their status and they admit to singlehood.

To a certain extent, it can be a compliment. They just couldn't believe how a "good family/relationship material" could endure cold and long nights alone. They couldn't understand why marriage would be so hard to stumble upon for somebody considered a good catch. Most of my friends just sigh in disbelief. Marriage is not like doing the grocery, like mindlessly taking something from the supermarket shelf and dumping it in the cart. The fullness of life one lives is not anchored on whether one gets hitched or not. The full life is lived even on lonesome.

As a breather, I'd like to share this list of amusing and witty answers to questions encountered by most single people when asked of their civil status. I don't know who did this list or if they were ever actually delivered. But I'm sure, for most of them, you can relate.

Happy reading!! Don't forget to mark which one's you should start memorizing.

====================

1. Di pa kasi ako handang mangutang sa kung kani-kanino? (sagot para duon sa mahihilig mangutang sa iyo)
2. Eh, bakit ikaw, maagang nabuntis? (sagot para sa mga disgrasyada)
3. Di pa pinapanganak ang magiging asawa ko.
4. Nasa ibang bansa ang kapalaran ko.
5. Ayoko pang maging miserable tulad mo. (sagot sa mga may broken families)

6. Ano naman ang ipambubuhay ko? Kulang pa sa akin ang sahod ko.
7. Wala pa akong makitang magandang bibiyayaan ng lahi ko.
8. Pakialam mo?
9. Wala pang nanliligaw sa akin.
10. Wala pa akong karanasan sa sex (sa babae).

11. Baog daw ako sabi ng kinakasama kong lalaki.
12. Rape victim ako nuon, marumi na ako, wala nang magkakagusto.
13. Bakit mo tinatanong? May pagnanasa ka ba sa akin?
14. Di pa ako tinutubuan ng pubic hairs.
15. Ayaw pa ng lola ko. Marami na siyang inaalagaang mga apo.

16. Next Question please....
17. Di pa ako nakakatagpo ng babaeng magta-trabaho't magpapakain sa akin.
18. Na- 'in despair' na ako, sarado na ang puso ko.
19. Bakit, puro panganay ka't wala ka namang nabubuong pamilya? (sagot sa mga babaero)
20. Marami na ngang pangit sa mundo, dadagdagan ko pa?

21. May kontrata kasi ako sa isang sikat na sperm bank, makukulong daw ako kung mapunta sa iba (nang libre) ang punla ko.
22. Nagpa-pregnancy test kasi ako.... POSITIVE daw... positive na may HIV.
23. "Iniintay ko lang na umabot ng edad po ninyo."
24. "Marami na akong labada, maraming salamat na lang."
25. "Bawal daw as stated sa kontrata ko sa Star Cinema."

26. "Ano?!?! Para may isa pa akong susuportahan sa sweldo ko?!"
27. "Sasali pa po ako sa Miss Gay Siquijor, eh."
28. "Pag nag ovulate na ako puede na."
29. "Basta ako ang naka belo tuloy ang kasalan!"
30. "Eh ikaw, bakit nakakalbo ka?"

31. "Hinihintay ko si Aga, hihiwalayan na daw niya si Charlene."
32. "May skin allergy ako sa Talaba. Puede saging na lang?"
33. “Pag may pinanganak nang babaeng may lawit.”
34. “Antayin ko lang."
35. "Pag may bakuna na laban sa hilik."

For more than five days already, I'm headed to bed at around midnight after spending, on the average, three hours playing badminton. I find it unusual that I don't suffer from aching backs or sore elbows, but more of the usual "disorder" of being plastered on your bed and finding it soooo difficult to get up. The maid hanged dark curtains on my window so that sort of made it doubly hard. You think it's still night outside when, in fact, countless couples have already completed their passionate early morning duels -- like some friends I know. This leaves me wondering how they can be so energized for the rest of the day when they welcomed the morning with one stressful workout. There must be a reason. After several minutes of deep thinking, all of a sudden, I concluded that I don't have to benchmark them with me. They're likely the one's who just lie down there like a log. Unlike some people who masterfully work each encounter like a masterpiece, each encounter different from the previous. This one leaves you exhausted afterwards. It's not surprising at all if you have to call in sick at work.

I'm really stressed. I tried to linger on my hot bath this morning. But I think foot massage may do wonders for me. Or one hour of hot bath.

I still have uneven tan. It's dark outside. Some 80's song is on the radio. I'm craving for apple juice. I'm wearing blue today, but I'm not exactly blue. More like green. Like some people. Yes, Ms. D?

On my way to lunch today, I overheard a lady so casually declare to her friend, "E ang kuya ko, walang kakuwenta-kuwenta!" I didn't look at her, but the way she said it was so full of frustration and, most likely, quiet resignation. I don't know, but the gloomy and dark sky provided a perfect backdrop for the remark. The voice was sober, but biting. Not so loud, but reverberating.

And then I thought about my sister. Was there ever an occasion before that could have made her utter those same words? What was it? How did she say it? Was there scorn on her face? Has she always felt like that? What exactly about me did she find so repulsive or offending or frustrating? Does she have plans of telling me? Am I really bad?

Maybe I am guilty. But I should write about that next time. Probably soon.

No, not there. Not in that sense. I've long been educated quite excellently in that area.

But I am a "virgin" in some other things, notably in:

1. Having my hair cut the skinhead style.
2. Puffing a cigarette.
3. Dyeing hair.
4. Getting tattoo.
5. Piercings.
6. Drugs.
7. Shoplifting.
8. Puking due to overdrinking.
9. Fractures.
10. Chickenpox.

I belong to the increasing number of countless young adults who live separately from home.

It is a welcome change for some after practically memorizing every nook and smell of their houses having lived there from birth. It may mean having to prepare meals yourself, but it is definitely rewarding from the usual menu prepared by Mom whose taste and recipe you have mastered without knowing it.

Others rejoice because it means definitely pushing freedom's definition and limits to the heavens. One can now walk around the hallway in the nude, you can now freely master the art of home trysts, or enjoy massage right inside your bedroom. There is no rule to follow when to shoo your friends away when they visit and, what's even more delighting, you can now loudly talk about one night stands complete with high-fives without fear that somebody might hear or reprimand you.

A few relish the experience because it means testing one's capacity to improve one's self. It now means managing your own household, something that most consider as either a joke or a torture. I have been living separately from my parents since I was 16 when I left home for college. I just realized I've been on it for more than ten years now. That's quite something. I'm glad it has turned out to be a fruitful experience for me on whole. I can write about the juicy details some other time. :) I don't know, I think I might be able to put up another Thomas Jefferson Library if all my stories and experiences are told and written.

Anyway, I hope parents will look kindly when their little ones decide to leave home and be on their own. At the very least, it means less laundry to do, less food to prepare, less noise to endure, less headaches to manage.

I am trying to understand why some parents would abhor this idea and I came to this: Maybe they fear seeing their kids live less comfortably or they worry about loneliness and survival. Those concerns are understandable, but behind them, I think parents really worry about them coming to life. What they imply is a crippling slap on their faces --- that they have failed miserably in rightfully equipping their kids to a larger thing called life!

And that's something that can never be undone.

Having a way to release your thoughts --- be they ravings or rantings --- is very therapeutic. You just can't stop getting amazed at how lifeless words suddenly breathe life and meaning when you put them together, one word snuggling beside another.

And so I chose to write about life, love, and lust, not because they pervade everyone's life everyday. But more so because they have a quiet way of breathing meaning and memories in what otherwise would have been so ordinary lives --- of me and you!

So welcome aboard! I hope you'll have a pleasant flight with me.


>>>I think it's in order that I acknowledge my friend Dindin's influence on me for coming out with this one. She's a brave soul who opens her heart to friends and a generous one too for making us her "family."<<<