Inquirophobique

I have the phone free for private use, yes. But I have a thing about talking to people.

You can even ask my sis, my mother hated me (and even her) when we had to call a pizza delivery for dinner and they were counting on me to make the call… but at some unexplainable reason… I just can’t lift the phone and flap open my mouth wide to start to talk to the (we all know it) sophomore college call center agent on the other side of the line.

This is a disease, perhaps. My brain is perfectly imperfect. I need to be treated.

The point of all this: please don’t count on me on making calls. I’m inquirophobic.

And i am not quidding.

Sept. 16, 2013

Any person can inaugurate his own love life. In any given place and time, he can respond to the call within himself. it is not fate that serves as the proximate cause of such phenomenon, it is only there as a crossroad or a menu in a restaurant where you have all the capacity to choose and select the most probable ends.

Mere chance is immaterial.

Every year, at the end of the month of December, our street is bedazzled by sky lighters and exploding sparklers. Ever since I was a child I have always been daunted by our exploding street, and I’m proud to say that I’m brave enough to reach our gate and observe the radical practice of bombing the supposed-to-be-spectacular night. It was as if I was back in the 1943 where the Allies battle the Nazis and the United States shelling Manila to eradicate the Japanese Imperial Army. But I have always enjoyed it. It gives me the usual thrill. Then in one moment, the year 2012 suddenly became history, and everything will be subjected to the same cycle that happens every 365 days.

To the future, to 2013!

Harvest time. My grand-mom has been keeping a root crop in a huge pot in the front yard. Today, she harvested a handful of ube or taro after almost a year. I bet she’d make another delicious bowl of creamy halaya complete with butter and sugar on top. She would always make one when we were little—while my cousins and I would play around in the afternoon. The smell of it would waft all over the place and we would settle down and wait for it to be cooked. Others would put the ube on top of halo-halo, but I would pop it quickly inside my mouth as the soft purple creamy desert melt along with the memories of childhood.

Harvest time. My grand-mom has been keeping a root crop in a huge pot in the front yard. Today, she harvested a handful of ube or taro after almost a year. I bet she’d make another delicious bowl of creamy halaya complete with butter and sugar on top. She would always make one when we were little—while my cousins and I would play around in the afternoon. The smell of it would waft all over the place and we would settle down and wait for it to be cooked. Others would put the ube on top of halo-halo, but I would pop it quickly inside my mouth as the soft purple creamy desert melt along with the memories of childhood.