London < Manila

Everyone has since been asking me about my 2-week holiday to London. And everytime, I mumble a 2 word response because I can't quite describe it in a quick chit chat.

The closest I came was when my friend Gayna asked me to describe it in 7 words. I told her it was "An old but definitely brand new experience." I've been there 5 times, it doesn't almost merit an anecdote. It's bound to be the same. Just some few edits: nicer weather, perfect football timing aka Euro 2012 and... that's it actually.

Except that compared to the past trips, this one offered a more relevant perspective. I set out to produce stories while there, and that required me to travel places we don't normally go. And because nobody was willing to be my assistant nor spend for train money that won't be reimbursed, I had to go alone.

The longest ride was the coast to coast train to Birmingham that took 5 hours, and a confused transfer route from stations in London that I was hearing for the first time.  But the most fun were both times I went around London, figuring out the Underground, and making the most out of my all day travel card, hopping in and out of stations. Partly because I wanted to take some shots. But mostly because I wanted to feel a slice of what it would be like living there.

And how fun it would be. No traffic, better transport system. I would get my dream New York scenario. The trench coats, scarves, boots, the bagels in the morning. There's something about it too. When you're out, your mind is clear. Like everything seems to suddenly inspire you. The air whispers poetry into your ear and lamp posts transfigure into metaphors. And even against the buzz of city walkers, you hear The Cure in the background, and you feel like the lead in an indie flick and you're under obligation to act cool and be profound, all the time. And all these, just inside your head.

I think it's something to do with the convenience of it all. When you're in Manila, you cannot be formulating thoughts when the heat and fear of being mugged is all you can think about. There, you have the liberty to let your mind fly free.

There's this Gwyneth Paltrow movie called Sliding Doors. It's a story about alternate endings that's based on whether she made the closing door of a train or missed it. And it's exactly like that: possibilities, like every second offers a brand new alternative.

 In Manila, it takes me an hour to get from my house to the office. And in that hour, I can't do anything, it feels as If I'm stuck against my will. It's not that I hate long rides because I do, it feels to me as if being given the free pass out of life, like being allowed to be totally disconnected to everything, and that it won't be at my expense.

But that goes only for special trips. You can't have that everyday, traffic everyday feels like being cheated of time. Time you'll never get back. In London, there's lots of time. You wake up at 6am, be at the train station by 6:30 and start your day at 7. Your lunch comes 5 mins after you order, and the counter for soda gets to you in seconds.  I felt almost disarmed. I didn't know what I was gonna do with my time, when here I'm almost always running out of it.

There, there are always answers. Which route to take? What time does the next bus arrive? Is it gonna rain today? Will I be able to get a table in 5 mins? And they answer accurately too. So you can plan, and stick with it, and still be able to go home at 4:45 pm before the pizza place closes so you can get your dinner.

So what if I just move there and have all that at my disposal? It would be so much easier. I could get a job and be able to pay rent, get a new phone off of credits, be hit by a car because my insurance will take care of me.

In Manila, it's hard times. Everything requires effort. You have to tune out the dreadful traffic to write into the air a script that's already past deadline. You can't have pizza every night because it doesn't cost you coins here, it takes away elusive paper bills.

It answers the more crucial questions, too. When will I be able to pay my debt? How long will it take me to pay for a car? Can I get job security? There are answers from friendly voices over the operator or faces behind the counter. All you need is to fill up some easy paper work.

Londoners love this thrill. They thrive on their iPhones and Blackberries; in their Nissans and Toyotas; in their flats in Central London, with their cubicles overlooking the London freaking bridge. And as I watched this, I think that maybe I can have this.

And that's when it hit me. I was looking at London in a good way for the first time because it doesn't threaten me anymore. I was excited to be there because I was also excited to leave for Manila. For the first time, I was going to London assured that when I go home, i'll be going home to something.

In the past 4 times I've gone there, I always leave with a heavy heart because there's something in me that says maybe coming home was a mistake. That maybe I should listen to 3/4 of everyone I know who tell me, London is the right choice. And so everytime I go there, I pick on it, find flaws and figure out a way to hate being there. But this time, I saw it for the beauty it was, because I was  finally sure that no matter how beautiful, Manila would always be the better choice.

There aren't easy answers here. Right now, as I write this, there are hard questions hovering over my head and I know there won't be easy answers. But is it home? Yes, definitely. And that is the easiest answer.

I could credit it to a job I love. I could credit it to friends. I could credit it to the fact that it's been witness to my tumultuous coming of age.

I went here alone, lived here alone, and the quirks of it that remain confusing - I'm figuring out alone. I went out here at 15, got a job at 19 and moved out at 21 -- I spent the decisive years of my life here and that weighs a million more than easy, convenient answers.

It's the city I can call mine. Our relationship got difficult at times, but we come through.

I still have fantasies of maybe living a while in London or maybe some other place else -- but Manila? It's home. The answers don't come easy but they always come out right.

Love, Luna

"Yes," said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. "Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know. You're Harry Potter," she added. 
"I know I am," said Harry.

"You're Harry Potter" were Luna's first words to Harry. The second time she spoke to him, it went like this: "You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil.....She didn't enjoy it very much. She doesn't think you treated her very well, because you wouldn't dance with her. I don't think I'd have minded. I don't like dancing very much."

"The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness," said Harry to himself that first time he laid his eyes on her. This was the same dottiness that was perfect for a date to Horace Slughorn's Christmas Party. And unlike Padma, she enjoyed herself. Harry did too.

All that before they both learned they could see invisible creatures. Before they fought Lord Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries. Before Harry helped save her from Bellatrix Lestrange. And before they went together to see Helena Ravenclaw for the lost diadem that would take him a step forward to ending it all.

Luna and Harry belonged together. She should have been Mrs. Potter and Mum to Albus Severus, James Sirius and her namesake, Lily Luna.

There should have been a cross breed of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw in the Potter home. This, I believe with my heart.


**********

(Here's a fan fiction I wrote a year ago)

LOVE, LUNA 

Her quill has been stationery against her scroll for a while now, forming a growing dot as she thinks about the final words she will write. Her husband Rolf is sleeping peacefully beside her as storm rages outside the  train window, illuminating briefly the towers of Hogwarts before it turned to pitch black again.

In her bag is a stack of what are probably a hundred scrolls rolled into a thick tube, containing the same words, more or less. Her writing was cut short when Rolf woke up and stroked her long, blonde, curly hair.

'Can't sleep again, darling?'

'As always.'

'Luna, you have to eventually show me those letters if you're ever gonna publish it.'

'It's not a book.'

'If you say so.'

She decided that the one in front of her was gonna be the last. It's been 30 years.

Her letters have since made up a string of 30 heartwrenching chapters, one for each year spent outside of Hogwarts.

She prepares to move the quill to write the phrase one last time.

'Dear Harry....,' she begins.

And tears fell for the boy who lived - the boy she loved.

Airport ordeal

Well I just wanna start by saying it was entirely my fault.

This time, I can't blame it on the universe or rant that I'm jinxed or go on a pity party of how my life is always a series of unfortunate events. This time, I was just stupid.

Days leading up to my flight to London, my mom called me constantly for an important reminder: Don't forget your old passport with your visa on it. And that I didn't. The night of my flight, I packed that old passport and my new passport into my purse knowing I couldn't, in hell, afford to forget it.

Before I left the house, though, I told myself: there's no harm in bringing my other passport, the one that had just expired. But the cab was already waiting downstairs, and the passport was not in sight nor in any drawers that were easy to access. I didn't have time to rummage through a very unorganized room. And so I left.

While at the cab, I looked at my purse and found very little cash. I had spent almost all of it buying pasalubongs. I was already along Roxas Boulevard and my ATM was wiped out when I remembered the expensive travel tax and immigration fee to pay. I had money sent over to me via cash transfer but my friend Monica, whom I texted to ask whether my 1,000 cash was enough for all the airport fees (it's not) - told me there are no cash transfer kiosks inside the airport. I had just enough time to get there and check in - there was no time for me to make a roundabout to cash transfer stalls.

Monica offered to lend me instead as she's just in front of Mall of Asia and MOA was on the way. I thought that was the end of it. It hasn't even started.

My e-Ticket had the header: Philippine Airlines. So when the NAIA terminal 1 guard asked to see it upon entry, she quickly noted that PAL has its own terminal over at Terminal 2. I explained that I was going on board an international flight and that it's where I've always gone. She said that all PAL flights, int'l or domestic, are over at terminal 2. It was 4pm. My flight was 7pm.

I quickly took another cab to terminal 2. Upon getting there, I noticed that my flight number was nowhere to be found in the electronic boards. I approached the desk and asked about it but was told to wait for the information officer -- who, very conveniently, had just left her/his post. I was told to wait. I said I didn't have time to wait. I asked another person in uniform who noted that my PAL flight is indeed PAL but is endorsed and is actually on board an Etihad Airway flight. And that my flight was actually really over at Terminal 1.

Agitated, I took another cab to Terminal 1 and explained to the guard that I'm on an Etihad Airway flight and not PAL. I was told I made the check in cutoff by a hairline. Upon check-in, the counter officer noted my visa and asked when I last flew to the UK. I said, 2010.

Even the Immigration officers asked the same question, before letting me through. On the plane while I was packing up my passports into my purse, I thought: Wouldn't the London Immigrations ask me the same thing? I have a visa allowing me to stay in the UK for an indefinite period, provided that I'm only outside of UK not exceeding 2 years at a time. Meaning, I have to go to the UK every 2 years to preserve it.

How will I be able to prove that I went to the UK in 2010 when my 2nd passport - the one that just expired, with all the stamps from the last 6 years - was back at home, sitting God knows where. I dismissed the thought, went to sleep, got off the plane at Abu Dhabi, settled comfortably in front of the boarding gate and turned on my laptop. My Globe Wifi was working! Amazed, I connected to the internet where I spent 25% of the 50% battery power remaining skyping with Apple and uploading photos.

The calm before the storm at Abu Dhabi.

When the boarding gate opened, we were all ordered to line up for a proper checking. And here is when it started. They did ask the same thing. I said my last entry to the UK was in October/November of 2010 and that I've been outside the UK for just less than 2 years. They wanted to see the stamps. I said I didn't have it. They were irked, how could I not bring with me the passport that has stamps on it?? I said I didn't think it was needed. He said, "I cannot believe you got through Manila without it." I was just thankful I did because if I didn't, that would have been the end of it, I would have been writing this blog from Quezon City.

Scared, I asked Apple, who was still online, to text my Mom about my situation. She didn't have regular load and it was almost 1 am in Manila. Nobody else was online. A few minutes after, I saw the green circle beside my cousin's name, who's in Canada. I asked her if she could ring my mom and tell her about my situation. We communicated through my cousin - her telling my mom over the phone and relaying the message to me via Facebook chat. (My mom doesn't know how to use the internet, this was the only way we could communicate)

But she doesn't have any proof of documentation too. Nothing that she could scan and email me. I searched my email for anything. My "ticket" search in  my gmail gave me an electronic ticket that I reserved in July of 2010. My supposed flight was going to be in August. I thought to pass that off as my actual ticket but I already told him I was last in the UK in October 2010. I explained it was not my actual ticket, but that it just goes to show that I was really going to fly to the UK in 2010. That I just canceled that ticket and flew in October and went back to the PHL in November. He said he's gonna need to see the actual ticket. I didn't have it as it wasn't an e-ticket.

As a last ditch effort, I looked for my Facebook photo album from when I was last in London. Fumbled for a photo that is evident it was taken in London (it was a photo of me standing in front of an underground train sign of Oxford Circus station) and showed it to him. "Sir this is a photo of me in London, the date stamp is November 2, 2010 --  I can't possibly fake a Facebook date stamp." He looked at me and dialed a number in his phone. I don't know what they talked about but he did give my details, my name, my birthday, my passport number, they talked for a little over 10 minutes and during that time, all the passengers had gone inside the plane and there was nobody else left but me and 3 other people who had problems with their documents. After what seemed like forever, he said over the phone, "she seems quite honest," put it down, handed me my passport and told me, "get your clearance at London, go, run, you're gonna miss your flight!"

By then my laptop had died. I didn't have time to worry about calling my mom to tell her I was gonna make my flight for fear I might consume time and actually miss it. I was the last one on.

We landed in Heathrow after 7 hours. I was very worried I might not get through the Immigration there. I greeted the officer with a lengthy explanation of what happened, the ordeal in Abu Dhabi, and that I'm very sorry I didn't have the passport. After I was done talking, he said, "Don't worry, I believe you, you don't have to explain. Go!"

I ran. For my life. I found my mom after 30 minutes. It turns out my sister checked the flight tracker online and saw that I was able to board the plane. We laughed it off, made it home, ate, slept for 14 hours, woke up, laughed some more, bought an adapter for my charger, and just when I was about to settle to write this blog..............

BOOM. my charger is not in my bag.

It's sitting in my bed in Manila right at this very moment.
I would have to wait until we get to Scotland where I can borrow my sister's friends' charger and live off that while we're there. And I would just have to preserve my battery life for when we get back here in Stevenage, where I'll be spending 5 more days until I have to go home.

So yes, kids, learn from this. Do not be stupid. Don't be like that smiling idiot above, who remembered to pack 5 books and an Esquire magazine but not her frakkin laptop charger. LE SIGH.

What would be enough?

My first shot at script writing. 1st semester of Senior Year and we

fashioned a makeshift newsroom and my laptop served as

the email basket, writing dock and editing bay.

As part of ABS-CBN's Holy Week evening block, its News and Current Affairs show "Krusada" ran a replay of Abner Mercado's story about elder women inside prison and whether President Noynoy Aquino will give them executive clemency. The episode was called "Laya" and it was trying to ask a very simple question: Will we let these women die alone behind bars?

The story got to the producer in me first. It had a very haunting opening and very arresting visuals. At one point, they got a silhouette of a woman limping across the corridor with the bars as its foreground. I thought it said everything it should in that one shot.

Abner Mercado had done a similar story for The Correspondents a few years back, he had worked hand in hand with NGOs and he had used his journalistic vehicles to peddle the plea to the Palace. What they wanted was simple: Set the old women free. In the episode, we were told the stories of a woman who was jailed for possession of a P10 worth marijuana, a middle-aged woman just diagnosed of cancer and a mother paralyzed from Parkinson's disease. Mr. Mercado could not even get a lucid response from her.

At the last part, Mr. Mercado visited the President's older sister Ballsy, and gave her the handwritten letter of an inmate with a simple message: I've paid my time, now give me my life back.

It was sensational story-telling. It was good television, but it had heart. I could see it, I could feel it. So much so that it has led me to this blog right now.

I've wanted to be in the business of Journalism for as long as I can remember. I've wanted it before I even knew what it meant; stuck with it after learning of the struggles and the dirty tricks. I have been employed in the journalism line for almost two years now, but everyday I find myself asking the same question: Do I want to tell a story? Or do I just want to sell air time?

As an intern for Manila Standard Today;

the daily that gave me my first every byline.

When I started, I was so excited, I was eager to learn, I was young and news was evolving, and commerce was beginning to hold a heavier weight. And for a long time, I did that. I was in the business of selling news and during that period, I'd forgotten to ask myself that question.

And I think that's what killed me a little. To not be able to ask the question because I was not in the place to answer. My memory is quite sharp and I'm always remembering things people tell me at random - most of them don't even remember talking to me about the topic. But anyway, I remember eating with a friend from GMA, and her telling me that they tell the stories they do in the hope to affect one person's life the very least. That if she tells the story of seminarians in rural areas who are not given ample allowance, someone might listen, and maybe as a result, a brother is given a decent soutane to wear and a good copy of the Bible to carry and teach the words of God with. And that would be enough. And I sat there, envying her for having that purpose. For having the answer to my question.

Covering the Manila area during Ondoy for a College project,

and getting to tape a standupper with a GMA reporter who,

after he was done, was nice enough to lend me his mic

for a photo opportunity.

So tonight I'll answer my own question. Do I wanna tell a story? Or do I just want to sell air time? I want to do both. I want to be able to tell a story and then sell that story so someone could listen. To get it out there, to do my part, and to do a difference in at least one person's life. And that would be more than enough.

It boils down to this simple line: To express, not to impress.

I'm in the business of making good Television. In the business of ratings, of advertising, of profit. In an industry where the story of killing sharks is mercilessly toppled in ratings by the story of two neighbors fighting over a lover. And I've accepted that. That we invest emotional and mental energy into telling the story of cutting trees and fight for air time, when paparazzi shots of korean bands just swiftly land on the fist gap.

But it's not the fault of the story tellers. After all, we're just messengers. And there is demand for certain kinds of content. But I still believe that Journalism is not just telling people what they want to know; it's telling people what they need and should know. And we carry that responsibility to be in their face and say "Hey, I know you would rather be getting entertained with dancing koala bears, but this matters and so you should listen."

It could make for good television, it could be oozing with ratings potential, it could be controversial, it could be loud. But it could also be quiet, underrated - it could be boring, it could be dull. It just needs to be a story that has to be told. And when we do tell it, then we've done our part and it would be enough.

On the field for only my 6th story as a producer.

It wasn't particularly my favorite but hopefully a training ground for

future stories that would mean more.

When I was in High School, I took Journalism as my extra subject. At the onset of the class, my teacher enumerated the reasons why people want to be a Journalist. I remember 1.) To be in the forefront of History 2.) The privilege of being the first to know 3.) The glory of the byline and some more about how covering the news is thrilling.

She forgot one thing and the most important: They just want to tell stories.

And that's what I want to do. I want to tell stories, but that still wouldn't be enough. I want to tell stories but more crucial than that, I want to tell them right. And I'm trying to learn just how to do that so one day I could tell myself I've done my part.

And that would be enough.

Good night, One Tree Hill

So One Tree Hill ended tonight. After 187 episodes, running a little over 9 years, the curtain had to come down, and quite literally, played the ending music.

And I was so affected that I tweeted some of the best lines from the show including Peyton's "First of all you don't know me, second of all, you don't know me" from the first episodes of Season 1. One Tree Hill ended and so did a fragment of my life, and I'm not kidding. Have you ever been attached to any work of art so much that it's just really too hard to let go when it's all over?

I started watching the series when it started airing. I was in High School, a sophomore, in a new school and finding it too difficult to fit in. And all that could make me get out of bed every morning was the thought of Tuesday night on ETC at 8pm when a brand new episode airs. And that was my life. And they became my best friends.

Lucas, my dear Lucas, who kept spitting out all these great lines from all these great books I didn't even know about. And I was learning things about Oscar Wilde and Albert Camus and before you know it, I was writing...stuff, on a notebook, on a diary, on my phone, on anything, about anything. I told myself, if I could just write my thoughts down the way Lucas expresses his on those epic parting voiceovers, then maybe that was enough.

And Peyton. I bought my very first pair of Chuck Taylors because I wanted to look like her. I wanted to be the kind of person that didn't care so much about what people think about you in High School. There was one thing she said in the first season that stuck to me like glue. Lucas stole her art works and passed it on to the local paper to have it published. Peyton wasn't thrilled.

"I want to draw something that means something to someone. You know, I want to draw blind, faith or a fading summer of just a moment of clarity. It's like when you go and see a really great band live for the first time and nobody is saying it but everybody is thinking it. We have something to believe in again. I want to draw that feeling but I can't and if i can't be great at it, then i don't want to ruin it, it's too important for me."

That's exactly what I felt about writing that time. I was 15, in High School, thought I was in love with a boy, but felt so much stronger about keeping my writing faithful, wanting to be great at it more than I ever wanted anything else in my life. It was a moment of clarity that at the time I could not write, and did not attempt to. I was just glad that among all the other kids who couldn't make up their minds what they wanted to do after High School and was lingering, I knew what I wanted to do, and I was excited to do it.

Mark Schwann (show creator and writer) got me hooked on the very first season. The show flailed a couple of times after. Season 2 went by like a blur and after season 6, it felt like it was ready to end, but continued to air for 3 more. And I tell this to everybody, but I just couldn't stop watching because they were family, and you don't quit on family.

Mark always said the show was nothing without its music, and rightly so. And that's a big part I will miss about One Tree Hill, its choice of music was impeccable. Every episode has its drama but when you hear that surreal, quiet sound with words like those of "For Blue Skies" (Strays don't Sleep), "Lie in the Sound" (Trespassers William), "Re-Offender" (Travis) "Always Love" (Nada Surf) and Gavin Degraw's whole catalog - you just transcend out of their story and into yours. And for a few minutes, there's comfort.

I remember my world stopping still when Grubbs (Wakey! Wakey!) sang "Dance So Good" inside the booth of Red Bedroom Records and thinking of how far the show has come in terms of depth. And me getting it, getting the lyrics, must mean I've come far too in terms of depth. I've grown just as much as they did, and I'd like to say they kept me in track while doing it.

It was fun growing up with them, so much so that I had difficulty watching the series finale. It just transports you back to where they were, but more importantly, where I was that time too. And how far I've come since being 15 and picturing Nathan as my husband to this, 21, and thanking all of them that for the last time, they said just the right words: "What you do matters."

I guess it was also the attachment to fictional best friends. I saw Haley fight for music, for Nathan; I saw her on the very first time she performed in front of a crowd, and the night she told Nathan, "the celebrity and the applause mean nothing if I'm not without you. So yeah, you're right, this is not the life I could have had because ever since I met you it has been so much more."

I remember Lucas telling Peyton, "it's you. when all my dreams come true, the person i want standing next to me, it's you" and her telling him on their wedding day, "Despite how confused I've been or lost I might've gotten, there is always you, finding me and saving me." And I remember Nathan falling on the hard cold floor of the High School basketball court after overdosing on steroids to the day he told Haley he was finally going to play in the NBA.

I remember Keith saying "And the people you love just forgot to love you back" and for the first time, understanding what it meant. Peyton's podcasts, which I had repeatedly gone back to for advice. "Find your battle, and fight like hell until your battle is won," she said. And it was a pretty damn good advice.

And the Tree Hill High corridors when they graduated, with Paolo Nutini's "Rewind" playing, and me thinking at the time, if I will also ever get to see my dreams come true. Just like they did. And then one night, in my old room, when I was second guessing myself, I made the decision to watch a few episodes back, they told me this: If you believe that your wish is right around the corner. And if you open your heart and mind to the possibility of it. To the certainty of it. You just might get the thing you're wishing for."

In season 5, Peyton asked Mia, the artist she just signed on to her label, "what would be enough?" Mia (Kate Voegele in real life) said:

Maybe, it's like I don't need to be famous and I don't need all of the money in the world, it's not about that. It's about that girl who is having a horrible day and she hears your song and for five minutes there's hope. You know? It's like for five minutes the world's not such a scary place for her anymore. You asked what's gonna be enough, that will be enough, that will be more than enough.

And if that was the show's intention too, then it had been more than just enough. For 9 years, there was a girl with a thousand horrible days and she listened to the music, and she watched the show, and back, and back agin, and for more than a few thousand minutes, there was hope.

Goodbye One Tree Hill, your art mattered, it's what gotten me here.

When you're 21 and a minimum wage earner

There's a place in the world where being 21 and being ass broke is cool. And it's not Manila. Here it's just lame, and pitiable.

There is nothing cool about opting out of Saturday night outs because you're broke, and observing Earth Hour not because you're environment friendly but because you have 2 months worth of Meralco bills sitting on your table threatening to plunge you to the dark ages.

It's also the thing about being 21 and earning minimum wage. You have to pick priorities: when the bills come pouring in, you have to ask yourself: what can you not have? So you pay the internet bill because your job (or life) sometimes depends on it. You pay the water bill because how else are you going to take a bath? You pay the building monthly dues because you cannot be homeless. And you're left with electricity - you figure you're just at your place to sleep, you don't need light when you sleep and you can charge your gadgets in the office.

A little extreme thinking but if there's any notices of disconnection I would rather see in the mail, it's electricity.

But that's not to say you can't have fun. Of course you can, but only twice a month. And that only lasts a few days. This month, mine lasted just one.

I had to have a root canal last week and the choice was either to be be poor or to die. I chose to be poor. I visited the dentist on payday so after I had it done, I went to a restaurant and ate my self to death. I figured, I should be able to eat everything I want on that day because God knows when I'll be able to eat again.

Another thing about being 21 and being a minimum wage earner is that, there's never enough money to spend on health and well-being. Visit the doctor? Nah, just take paracetamol. Buy paracetamol? Nah, just drink water.

And of course you cannot ask your parents for dole outs unless it was a matter of life and death. You're 21. That age just screams pressure. Prove yourself. Be responsible. Live alone. Be independent. You cannot just call your mom and say, "Hi Mom, you were right, I can't do this." Of course you can't! You tell them you can and you don't need their money……….anymore.

And that's one of the perils of being 21 in Manila. You lived in a country where parents are expected to fund you for as long as forever. The system doesn't allow for student loans and housing plans. The society surely doesn't allow for waiting tables, mowing lawns or doing paper rounds to sustain you.

We have no choice but to live and loot off our parents. That's why when you're finally done with school, it's just too embarassing to continue being their responsibility.

And for that, you accept that you're never going to be able to buy a house or a car in the next 10 years. There's just no way to. So you start lowering your standards. Maybe a phone, a TV, a laptop. In my case, my phone, my TV, my laptop were all courtesy of my mom. Allow me to feel pathetic.

But there are still things you can pay for yourself. Like Holidays. Because if you don't travel, and get days off from your job and have that moment of total disconnection, you're gonna lose your mind.

It's cheaper to travel than pay for a shrink.

The saddest thing about being 21 and earning minimum? You are kind of stripped of the right to be outrageous, be irresponsible and take risks. You literally cannot afford to.

"Times are hard for the dreamers," I read somewhere.

It is. It's hard. Not knowing when you're gonna be able to finally pay that electricity bill, or if you're ever gonna have enough to replace a shitty phone. Or if you'll ever reach the period of not living from paycheck to paycheck.

But being 21 and earning minimum and sticking with it? When you can fly to the UK and earn crazy there or sell your soul to corporate robots and get paid shitload, is maybe another way of being outrageous and being irresponsible.

I know for sure it's taking a risk. Wondering, hoping and waiting for that risk to pay off - that's where the fun comes in.

It's just a scary, unstable kind of fun and you would have to have a dark sense of humor to find it funny. Thankfully, I'm a little twisted, because being 21 and earning minimum wage and being broke is kind of my thing right now. And I've never felt more alive.

#TeamAwesome

(If I may make a suggestion: listen to this while you read: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VSRwS1T5l4I)

It's out there. #TeamAwesome original is splitting up.

Well actually, I wasn't really part of the original; just came in early enough to make the claim a little valid. There were four of us then, me, Stacy, Neil and the brainpower that is Sir Josh.

We used to occupy a dainty little table at a corner in the newsroom's technical hub, and we would have our own world and live our own little lives despite the noise and the constant tension that is news production.

Sir Josh would occupy the end part of the table, facing us three. He would have his face buried on his macbook most of the time except when we need questions and other situations that really require the Josh intervention.

And it worked, freaking brilliantly. We had our own system. Of taking little breaks to relieve frustrations, of playing good music, or taking pauses to surf the web for pleasure, just to get the engine going. Of eating good food, or bad food, constantly throughout the day.

Of taking trips after office, on the weekend; of having midnight snacks around Timog. I cannot remember a milestone in the time we worked togther that it wasn't marked, or accompanied by food. We just hit 100,000 followers: get burger at Johnny Rockets. We need to prepare for a coverage: order in Pizza. Post-mortem: buy chips from 7/11. We collectively had a bad day in the office: get ice cream.

The first day News TV was launched, Sir Josh bought us all coffee. I'm not a big fan of coffee, but it did stir us to the right direction. Not because of caffeine, or that we are energized solely by food, but that we have a common goal and we have a common drug, and that drug was simple: food. And it has resulted to so many amazing things.

When Sir Josh migrated to the 2nd floor where he had his own cubicle and left us three in the table, I suffered from terrible separation anxiety. It felt like losing a driver, at an express way, at 80 kilometers per hour. So imagine the feeling when he left the company. I was scared shitless.

And there was a period of needing to talk to him constantly over GChat just to kind of regain balance. But sad to say, I never did.

Then we started shifting schedules. I would be in the morning, Neil and Stacy would take the night shift and at one point, I would just feel..alone. I think that's what happens when you work so closely together with someone, when you build habits and plan routines and sync your movements with the other person. The machinery collapses when you take away one.

I'm not saying this is the reason, but I think it makes sense to disassemble the triumvirate. Especially when Neil left. It was just too unfamiliar without the boys, like there is perpetually something missing.

And I feel bad because the team's eventual additions need not suffer the consequences of our domino effect. For the past months, it has brought me guilt to know we may be contributing to a rupture. And it needs to stop.

I just woke up one day and I knew something had to be done. A decision had to be made. To continue, or to stop. And I guess people have always known; I probably have known on some level that I was also going to leave the team not much later.

I found out Stacy had pulled the plug days before I did, and it just hit me; some kind of clarity that maybe our fate was meted out together that way. It was the plan; and we carried out a destiny for one and a half year before we had to separate ways and make our own.

This - us four taking different roads - this makes sense. If not together, then maybe not at all. And we are branching out happily, breaking apart but not really. We're all happy, each of us finding the decision quite liberating actually, like this has always been the endpoint of this chapter of our lives.

Like a goal that has been accomplished; and like any other mission, it is time to move on. But not without looking back and saying, fuck, we were truly awesome together.

Awesome enough to manage and weave magic seperately. And every time I think of it, of us going our separate ways, I can hear Sir Josh's voice, asking: "What is your takeaway?" (Sidenote: He loved asking "what is your takeaway"? I think "takeaway" is his favorite word)

And you know what? My takeaway is this: that I was given some of the best months of my life with the best people. And that alone is a victory. We won, guys, we really, really did.

It's just the reality of life. It goes on. To Gayna, Justin, Marj and Audrey: Kick some major asses, guys! You are #TeamAwesome, remember that :)

So it's out there. #TeamAwesome original is splitting up. So from your bunso, I love you three. When you have time, there are four champ burgers reserved for a reunion.

From the words of Steve Jobs: Stay hungry, literally and figuratively. Stay foolish.

Stay awesome :-)