I posted about Honolulu but not in this blog

I charged through the double doors of one of the dozens of 7-Eleven convenience stores in Ortigas, and this song played on the radio was garbled by a poor audio system or faulty antennae. All of their sandwiches are soggy, and I was right with their ham and cheese sandwich: it doesn't taste like ham (more like thin bologna meat) and the ten-second trip to the microwave made it unbelievably hot and soggy. Not that I grew up eating good sandwiches--I actually mastered in toasting Ques-O and SM Bonus mayonnaise when I was a kid--but it's just one of the things you would likely notice and hold against yourself. Eating a really bad sandwich at 7-Eleven is an epiphany waiting to happen: it won't occur if I had contracted amoebiasis from company food, or if I'd eaten botcha near St. Francis Square. It's just not my personality to eat a sandwich, or any kind of bread, in the morning. I hate bread. It's a subtle thing to notice but enough to make you think of rechanneling your energies, whatever that is. It makes you think that something's quite wrong, or has changed. But just quite.

But it feels just as bad, and the pang of it feels like eating a meal right after a thirty-second gargle of mouthwash. 

My colleagues left me and went home on time, after having convinced them about this really important errand I have to run with one of our bosses. Clearly, it wasn't true. It's a very likely situation in the office, but not to the point of declaring an overtime. (By the way, our OTs are unpaid because our company's really lax, and we can sleep for three hours as long as you did what you're supposed to do, and we have minimal rules anyway.) I wanted to stay for a bit to stretch my writing muscles, and find some time to write what I have to write. Alone, because it's not a good feeling when you know someone's throwing glances at your computer screen while typing away something about... say, dreams.

Lately I couldn't get some privacy. I share a room and a laptop with my wife, the latter was because my laptop has to go to AppleCare or something and I'm having doubts if I should pay for its repair or just let it sit for months. I take care of my son during the weekends, and then some bills, errands, groceries with my Dad and my wife. (Writing "my wife" makes me feel ten times older than my age.) I'm not complaining--I'm having a grand time. I just couldn't find the time to write, or to put things down on a piece of paper (or in my iPod, which is really the worst gadget the humanity is using to type a story in). On a normal day I sleep for eight hours and wake up for thirty minutes of bike, then I cook dinner--I just love cooking meals--and watch Al Jazeera or this show on Asian Food Channel, Chef At Home.

Maybe tonight I'll be upstairs to finish a book review, but where to write it has been the biggest predicament, since I've adapted myself to write in that laptop, or in this work computer. My wife's desktop is anything but neat, with all the folders scattered around, in no visible order, at least for me.

My problems are very benign, to the point that I should probably check a psychiatrist, or beer. Or Batanes!