Two days ago, after a bunch of crudely planned date nights that eventually (and mighty grudgingly) had to be aborted, I have, finally, been able to get together with my Padawans.

Woo hoo.

Everything happened on a whim.

I remember lashing out my tapsilog-craving-driven frustration on social media (excuse moi for being so arti arti), blacking out, then suddenly finding myself seated with Hannah and Monica at a Tapsi ni Vivian joint somewhere in Marikina. Cool.

We got to catch up on a lot of things—newfound hobbies, art, deteriorating love affairs, subcultures… pretty much just basic shtuff found on the life lately list. There’s so much to say, but I honestly didn’t know where to start, and had, in the end, decided to sort of just shut up.

Do you know how it feels like having (and soon giving in to) the urge to intervene with your own talking just because suddenly there’s this need to present a back story such that no holes will appear? Yes? Well, suck on that. No worries, tho, you’re not alone.

I’m a pretty lousy storyteller. If there’s one thing I’m good at in this field it’ll be messing up my chum’s mental construction of timelines. I say a lot of irrelevant shit, and since we’ve very limited time that night, I didn’t say much about the dude I’ve got my eyes on.

(Ew, mush.)

I found it excruciatingly tricky trying to focus on one thing with all these strips of memories suddenly turning up in my brain guts.

(Ew, more mush.)

Okay.

In other news, we’ve visited a mighty prissy cupcake saloon sitting nearby.