Trip.

Dec 29 '06. Friday, 2:19pm. Tired from harassing myself to finish my quota for the week, I gratefully sat on a vacant bench on the bus and proceeded to listen to my pod. I go to my Chill Out playlist and once the music starts I close my eyes and take myself on a ride I'm all too familiar with.

My mind processes the events which made me cry and left me with no sleep. I cringe at my feeble and cowardly attempt to profess my affection and a sigh escapes from my lips at the thought of getting no reaction whatsoever. Regret tries to enter with its ugly lengthy horns, but I close my mind to regret. If it hurt, it was probably worth it.

Flashes of Nitro IB pics, okrayan with Markie and Jamie, coaching session with my agents, 45-minute yosi breaks in Starbucks Valero, counseling sessions with Cha Ems, Astoria drinking nights.

My mind then scans through the QA room nightshift quartet (Vince, Jenny, Fats, Me): I remember the night when Fats went on leave. In an attempt to have Fats bring us some Julie baked goodies the next shift, Vince staged a hostage-taking photo-shoot of Fats' stuffed toy (using my crazy Nido pen and a plastic fork). The QA room conference table was laden with ensaymada, hotdog rolls, and sweet cakes the next night. I then remember the small gifts and thoughts everyone gave me when I had to leave the program to start a new one: the Jollibee cheeseburger, the Goldilocks pinipig, the sweet cards, the ref magnet...

And then the beach trips. La Union, Batangas, Bohol, Boracay. I begin to miss the waves of La Union and the awesome morning breeze in Batangas. I try hard to recall the feel of the ebbing tide around my ankles as I walk on the beach in Boradise. I long to lie in the hammock I slept in on a lazy morning in Panglao.

Faces of the people I love parade before me and I thank the heavens for my good fortune in spite of the hell-ish 12 months. I then tell myself: It's been a crazy year. I have no idea how I survived it.

I open my eyes and see the Pasig River, reminding me I have to be ready to get off the next stop. I stop my pod and stuff it deep in my bag.

I don't listen to music as I climb to the MRT and cross EDSA to ride a trike for home, but I still see the faces, the places and events. I regret nothing. I still hurt. I am not happy.

I am fortunate to have lived through it.