In the middle of Silver Linings Playbook I realized that I only write when I’m not happy. I thought it was the other way around—that writing makes me unhappy—but recently I just ran out of ideas. And time. The part when Pat threw the Hemingway out of the window with such force that he broke it and landed right on their front lawn was a riveting image of disappointment, which gave me a lot to think about literature as an outlet than a trigger. (A good film can be a trigger.) I wanted a beer, a complicated problem about arts and the humanities, a cigarette, and my chapped lips to deal with. It keeps me thinking. It keeps me from being dumb. It makes me feel alive. Recently I couldn’t think of other things—I think about work, the things I need to do. Where should I get dinner? What time should I leave the office? Should I take a taxi or a bus? The reading was becoming a lesser priority. I drink coffee more, but at least I drink it black, without the cream or sugar. Smoking is becoming a habit, as I’m lighting four sticks a day. My body is in awful shape, even if I drink once in three months. But tonight I decided to pop open the sole Kostriker Schwarzbier sleeping in the fridge since March, back when I bought it just because of the buy-one take-one deal at Fresh in Paseo Center. It’s not bad, at least when left chilled for a couple of months. (Expiration date: 07/05/2015.) It has a deep flavor profile and a smell that reminds me of molasses. After some time I started wincing while drinking it, all the while thinking about getting to the nearest sari-sari store who can be so kind to sell me a pack of cigarettes, or just a stick, which is what I need. As I’ve said, reading has become a lesser priority, though I still find time to read a chapter or two of Nicholson Baker’s The House of Holes: A Book of Raunch in the bus, even if the act makes me feel dizzy. I haven’t written anything (if you consider jotting down a sentence or two on a notebook, sure, but it’s pathetic) nor have I talked to anyone about anything that’s noteworthy or interesting. I cooked sinigang na salmon for Dad just last Monday and he said Thank You when I was about to leave the house. I want to write something about a Filipino in Paris who didn’t really get the whole hype about the place, but it feels a bit formulaic. There’s no thrill in writing it. I wish I had a window with a view, like a floor-to-ceiling window that offers an uninhibited view of trees and mountains. I’m not really sure if I’m passionate about my career; it looks like it, but something’s missing. I always wanted to go back to a certain day in the past and alter a part of it. My Mom reared us not to succumb to prescription meds at the slightest headache, but lately it's been getting worse that I took Dolfenal 500. It was the second time I took one and it felt a bit refreshing. For Father's Day my wife bought me a Gillette Mach 3, and I was happy about it. I had to mention it to her as I've been planning to shave more often. Dad messaged me on Facebook with a link to an image of assorted sausages sold at a deli in UPLB I've been hearing a lot, and said he'd pay me as soon as I delivered it to his house in Bulacan. Later on I found out it was a sponsored post, but why was I targeted again?