Procrastinating Like There's No Tomorrow

I'm not an exception. I have a hundred tasks to do and I don't know where to begin.

It's Sunday and I woke up at 9am to have an early start. The early start became 11:30am since I dozed back to dreamland as soon as I hit the snooze button on the alarm. By noon, my early start began rather slow as I counted drips on my improvised coffeemaker for a full-bodied dark mug of coffee. I got impatient and decided to make a latte instead, assuming that lattes are three-fourths milk. Coffee chugged down, face chilled. Time-check: 1pm.

'I need to do the following things', my mind kept on scrolling this on my line of sight. 'I should make a list,' I thought. Make that thing for mum. Make that thing for school. Make that thing for the team. Make that other thing for the school. Make one more thing for the team. And so I sat down in front of the computer and made photo collages for my Friendster account.

Editing my photos and posting it on Friendster ate most of my afternoon. But one thing leads to another when you're online. Before I knew it, I was already wiping off some unworldly specimen just in time for Kala's buzz in YM. `You haven't been blogging,' she said. After a quick chat, I logged on to Blogger at exactly 6pm. Thanks for bringing it up, Kala.

Now, here I am with a hundred things to do. I lie. Only four of five things. But these are major, lose-your-job-if-you-don't-comply things. I don't feel any sense of urgency nor panic. I figure, I still have a hundred hours left before bedtime, so what's a nice movie to watch?

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Old Haunts

It was a little over 3PM when we got to the cemetery, all ten of us, dressed in black and searching for a place to do a photo shoot. It was almost the end of the semester and the last of the Major subjects before some of us would go on to internship. Van's Advance Advertising group--composed entirely of our barkada--was named Witches and Wizards and we're doing the shoot for their company profile. Why I wasn't part of the group was because of my own idea. Our instructor wanted 9 members per group. I suggested we draw lots. My suggestion bit me.

By that time at the cemetery, we were already inseparable. People either loved or hated us but we didn't care. We made so much noise in Masscom, upped the department's standards (we believe that, but don't take my word for it) and shook the competition between ourselves and our classmates. Each of us had our own abilities to contribute to our growing group. Our backgrounds made us unique but our group moved as one.

Counterclockwise from right to left: Jasbabe the Diva, Anthony the Performer, Ruby Jane the Beauty, Jap the Writer, Haguia the Brain, Arnold the DJ, Gio the Rockstar, Carole the VJ, Van the Model, and Mae Ann the Politician.

Our group broke stereotypes at school, we aspired for innovation in our work and never settled for anything less. What was impossible was achievable as long as we helped each other. It was almost hard to believe that a group of friends could be intelligent, talented, creative, popular, beautiful, spiritual and still know how to party.

It wasn't always fun. We had our share of fights, misunderstandings, debates, stand-offs and cold bouts but we'd always kiss and make-up no matter how short or long it took.

A year after the cemetery pictorial, our group grew bigger as more people joined us--Bien the Diplomat, Don the Partymeister, and Derf the Joker but he's a TV personality now so all respect should be given to him. There are several other people but the ones I mentioned are essentially the heart and soul of our barkada, our second family, at least that's how I saw it.

One blog post is not enough to summarize our group's colorful history so I'll just end it with a video from the Jologs archives. We are not dead but in this season of remembrance the departed are not the only ones worth remembering.

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Charge Me With DUI

Thursday night. I'm down to my last hundred and last few ounces of sanity. Self-proclaimed fag hag Johanna called; said a girlfriend is celebrating her birthday at Qube and they need a bodyguard. I'm thinking Kevin Costner and she's thinking Jap. It didn't take long to persuade me. I'm broke but I've got a quarter bottle of cheap vodka sitting in my closet. I told Johanna I'll meet them at the club after I pre-party in my room.

Sugar-free Red Bull, 7-Up Free, and bottled water on my table. Not much of a choice. I took two generous shots of vodka 7-up, straight, barely mixed in a paper cup. I was smiling silly as I brushed my teeth and waved goodnight to Khalid. I crisscrossed my way to the bus stop and counted the amused knowing smiles of passersby. I waited for a taxi. I wished a private taxi would pick me up before I wore off my high. And just like a manipulative scene from the Ocean's 11 franchise a private taxi pulls up in front of me almost immediately.

10 minutes and 10 riyals later I'm standing outside Qube trying to figure out the new entrance. Enter through the hotel lobby, a voice from somewhere. I started to walk and caught a glimpse of another lost patron; told him to join me. Tall, chubby, buttoned-up Lebanese picked up my pace and handed me a Red. Thanks, but no. I took out my Lights and as I lit, I saw a tattoo on his arm--a sorry little "F". Nice tattoo, must stand for your name, huh? He misunderstood because he said it means 'I love my mother'. He moved closer and there it was, just below the "F", a faint line of Arabic script. When we got to security check, I unbuttoned F's shirt, told him to loosen up and wished him luck with the girls.

Johanna's troops weren't around yet so I decided to sustain tipsy, headed to the bar and had a beer in less than five minutes. Lights flashed and my smile widened. Who said I was lonely? No one could tell. The girls arrived, I counted four and I greeted happy birthday to two before I got the right one. Dance was their plan and with inhibition fading with each burp, I gladly strutted with them. We danced like a tribe, their big bags--in the middle of our circle--our bonfire. Almost an hour on the dance floor before the girls got drinks. They tabled me like a gigolo and gave me a beer, I'm losing it with each sip.

After another bottle of beer I was already laughing for no reason. Destination: dance floor, again, but I needed more fuel. I went to the bar and asked for Corona Extra. Loud music. Corona Extra. The bartender mouthed some words to confirm my drink. I said yes. I ended up with a big glass of vodka, some other alcohol and cola. Sweet! Back to the girls and go crazy.

Men from all over the world have already invaded my tribe and the girls kept chanting, brushing them off, the men got all the more challenged. This is where I come in, the reason why they asked me to go out with them in the first place--to protect them from men who won't leave Qube without pussy. Instead of pushing them out of our circle, I sexy-danced with each man who tried to score with my girls. They danced with me for a few seconds then moved away and decided to stalk another group instead. Lovely tactic, and everyone in my tribe is safe and happy. Everyone.

Lights on at 2:30 AM. The girls have left a little earlier. I barely made it to a cab, cursed every roundabout on the way home. Puke was threatening with each step to my room. I made it. Stripped, resigned to the spinning room, slept.

I woke up at 4PM, fresh, without the smell of alcohol (the wonders of vodka) and just minor cigarette stench. But I limped all the way to the bathroom. I probably tore a tendon from all the grinding, I didn't feel it while dancing under the influence.

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Dusk

It's exactly 6PM as I write this. I've pressed the play button on my walkman phone and it's now playing Paul Weller's "You Do Something To Me" off the playlist I entitled 'Dusk'. 'Dusk' was previously known as '6PM' but since I rearranged the tracks and added more to the list, I decided to rename it. And what's this fascination with this time of day? 6PM is not just a playlist, it's a realm of memories.

How I came up with a 6PM playlist was easy. I remember as a kid, I'd often walk home at dusk, because any minute later would mean an angry grandma. I'd pass by sari-sari stores or houses with men out on their front yard drinking Gold Eagle Beer or Tanduay Rum (you can tell by these drinks what kind of neighborhood I grew up in), and they'd always have a radio on. This was pre-videoke. What amazed me was the kind of songs these radio stations played. At 6PM, it was always classic slow rock and power ballads like those from bands like Styx or songs like Caravan. Jukebox music right in your own home. Since then, when dusk comes, I'd always crave for songs that have a distinct guitar riff or a lonely bar room feel with an affected lounge singer. A bit bluesy but not quite, more like dreamy. To give you a better idea, here's a portion of my playlist:

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Or better yet, here's a close enough clip of what I mean (the song is in the list too). It's a scene from Y Tu Mama Tambien, just before the threesome did the nasty. The song is called Si No Te Hubieras Ido by Marco Antonio Solis.



It was dusk when I met my first lover. We were both 15 and in love and nobody knew about it. It was a summer affair in which I learned how to drink beer, smoke, and dance. I didn't flip out when it ended. I considered it as my initiation to a mysterious world and I passed with remarkable colors, that I never knew existed. I remember writing an uplifting short story when we ended our relationship. I also remember that it was when I started to write about people without using pronouns.

It was dusk when Ryan, my best bud in high school, and I would go to Capitol Lagoon and talk the night through because none of us wanted to be home. We'd exchange mythologies of the doomed love affair of the two golden statues that marked each side of the Lagoon's pool. The lovers are so close yet forever parted because some artist thought it would be dramatic if the female statue would eternally wait for her hero.

It was one of those talks when I first came out. It was also the last of those talks. Years later, I'd disproved my own mythologies about those statues and instead thought of them as a haunting metaphor for all my relationships--whether it be family, friends, or lovers, we'd always be parted by bodies of water.

It was dusk when I'd drive the long highways of Davao and find myself in different cities in an hour. Aimless driving, aimless thoughts. I remember that the goal was to chase the horizon until it was time to go back. With only a good soundtrack on board, I'd make my way through towns that shrunk smaller and smaller with each mile away from the city. Seeing those towns, I thought I didn't want to go back to my life. Simple living meant simple problems. But then the tape runs out, the last stick of cigarette evaporates, and perhaps the last can of beer turns into burp, and I'd snap out of it, drive back home and try to catch Frasier on cable.

It's that lazy guitar riff that brings back a thousand memories. It doesn't matter now if it was happy or sad. It's just memory. Neither a positive or a negative. And the songs, they are notes that mark the sunset--the very moment when we stop to think: what have I learned today?

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Emergency Bonding Night

Mustafa, concerned of Edmar's condition, sped through the highway at 11:30PM. What should've been a five-minute drive to the hospital took forever because he kept missing the exit and we had to go all the way back and try Mustafa's sense of direction again. He blazed past speeding cars while Khalid, Ehab and I mentally wrote our last will and testament at the back seat. Finally, our novice driver got the turn right and I've never been so relieved to see the blinking lights of an ambulance parked outside the Emergency entrance of the hospital. We arrived safe albeit shaken.

Tonight was indeed the most unlikely of nights. Five guys—working and living in one office complex—who never really got along together, found themselves cramped and sweating in a car just so they can save Edmar, who was exaggerating a case of high fever (straight men can be the biggest babies).

We all got out of the car and marched slowly towards the Emergency hall. It was a busy night for the hospital. We went past several ambulances with medics unloading stretchers and bodies in temporary life support, and past teens with their loud mouths and car-accident injuries. We were all amazed with what we were seeing while Edmar made baby steps behind us. Before we entered the hall, Mustafa stopped Edmar and told him discreetly, "Rashid, you have to act sick, don't look too normal," and like a good actor on cue, Edmar trembled as we watched a guy, bleeding on a wheelchair, roll by us.

Mustafa accompanied Edmar in the waiting area. And we waited. For two hours. The rest of us waited at the lounge where we entertained ourselves with the different people that came in and out of the automatic sliding doors. At one point, out of either boredom or stupidity, Khalid asked whether the sliding doors are magnetic.

I was busy counting morbidly obese Qataris (who were probably getting insulin shots in the middle of the night) limping their way to the Emergency room when Edmar called on my mobile. "Pare, tagal dumating ng doctor. Pahingi naman ng tubig o."

After asking for directions from a Pinoy nurse who was trying to disguise his Ilonggo with awkward Tagalog, I made my way through the long empty hallways of Hamad Hospital in search for bottled water. On the way back, I thought about the public hospitals back in the Philippines. I missed buying from the street vendors because they always set up their stalls at the most convenient spots and these were never more than a few steps from the main entrance. I missed having to walk through hospital hallways and see patients instead of emptiness because then you could have casual conversation along the way like: "Lola, how is your TB?" or "Pare, did you get that gunshot wound from a riot or a stake-out?" or "hey, can I write my name on your cast?". I also missed the nurses who were always ready to give their diagnosis thus the cue for the doctor gets shorter and shorter.

I finally got back to the waiting area but I didn't see Edmar so I just gave the water to Mustafa then I went out to join Ehab and Khalid who found a nice spot on the freshly spat-upon grass. I handed them drinks and Khalid said something like: "The Sudanese…and the Egyptians (turning to Ehab) are the best doctors in the Middle East." I saw a Pakistani nearby raise his eyebrows. I wanted to throw my candidates in the hat but I could only think of one person: Manny Pacquiao. I couldn't possibly win the payabangan contest. Khalid's men save lives; my guy beats the crap out of Latinos so Khalid's doctors can practice their profession.

Ehab, who looks like a young Sylvester Stallone, was sweating like Rocky. The night was so humid. He revealed that he is a Jackie Chan fan and can't get enough of Rush Hour. He almost drooled on his tie as he enumerated reasons why he adores the action star.

We talked about films for a while and I asked Ehab if there are any good Egyptian comedy films he could recommend. They both delighted themselves in telling me a couple of jokes from a movie of a famous comedian Adel Imam, probably the Mid Eastern Mr. Bean since their jokes included a reenactment of a scene concerning Adel in a zoo, a lion, and an unlocked lion cage.

They both laughed at their own jokes while I laughed at them. I was going to tell them green funnies when Mustafa and Edmar got out of the Emergency room and joined us. Ten patients in two hours with only one doctor.

In no time we're at the back seat again but this time not as quiet as we were when we first arrived. Ehab boldly said that Mustafa is a careless driver. Khalid agreed. Ehab said that everyone else thinks so too. "Why do Qataris drive so fast?" Khalid asked. "Maybe they can't wait to go to heaven," I answered. They all laughed except for Edmar who's officially suffering from tonsillitis.

I guess I finally found out what kind of jokes tickled the Muslim mind.

But the biggest joke of the night was from Qatar. Because for an extremely rich country, it doesn't give a flying f#@$ about the health care department. Much like the Philippines but at least we get to have hallway parties in our hospitals.

We arrived at around 1:30 AM. Edmar felt guilty for bothering us but we all agreed that it's mafe mushkala. After getting inside the building, we disappeared into our own separate rooms. Bonding night is over.

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Firewalled Friends

I remember some time ago when I was in Boracay, the topic of working there came up. "Wouldn't it be nice to work in Boracay?" was the thought that went around the group and for a while, I thought about the endless summer on the majestic beach, the glorious sunset each day, and thousands of people from different countries that you will meet. And then, I felt sad. Sure you'll meet a lot of people, but you are bound to go through the feeling of being left behind over and over again as tourists come and go and go and go. Everyone is moving. Nothing is permanent. Friendships are offered, accepted, but never kept. From that time on, I felt the sadness of the locals and those working on the island and how they must guard themselves not to be too involved with the tourists. Any friendship they can offer comes with an imaginary firewall thus, no one gets burned. Here in Qatar, the expat life is quite the same.

I'm the kind of person who is not quick to join groups or organizations overseas. For example, yesterday, I was invited to join an org for Ilonggos. I politely smiled but I doubt if I'll ever attend a meeting. A common dialect is simply not enough reason to group yourselves together. I still believe that one good friend is better than a dozen so-so friends.

Aside from my foster family and officemates here, I only have five friends, some good, some so-so. I've tried my best to further develop my friendships with the so-so friends but it's stuck. I'd like to think that I'm a fairly nice guy to hang around with and some people still answer my messages so I'm thinking that they still like me. But I can never get them to be good friends--the kind you can spend comfortable silence with, or someone who will finish your food for you when you're full, or you can be bitchy with when you need a punching bag, or sing and have him sing the backup vocals, or someone you can laugh with at the corniest of jokes, someone you can use, abuse and love.

Not in Qatar. Here, people stay for only one reason: to work. Without the oil, nobody would ever dare come here. And since most people here are foreigners, you would be apt to keep things temporary. Portable radios, DVD players and laptop computers. Inexpensive furniture, disposable wares, mid-priced cars. Lots of acquaintances, a dozen shallow friendships, and very few good friends. The less attached you are, the less hurt you'll be when people leave. And in this place, they do leave.

I can be unfeeling when I want to; heart hard as stone. I've had my own share of heartaches and it taught me how to build firewalls in an instant. But I don't want to quit. If I meet a friend worth keeping, I keep it. A lot of my friends (from around the globe) can attest to that. Distance is not a factor, time is not a factor. What counts is the love that you put in. And no matter how far apart, or how long you haven't seen each other, you are confident that the friendship has remained strong.

"[There are] no good friends, no bad friends; only people you want to be with.
People who build their houses in your heart." -from "IT" by Stephen King

I have my lumber, nails and hammer. I'll be building my house in your heart, but first, we'll have to do something about that firewall. Now where's that wrecking ball?

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Like a Perfect Day for Bananafish and Clockwork Orange: The Blogger Crossover

The phone rang four times before I heard a strange panting and moaning on the other end. "Ahhh, ahhh, uhhhhhm, haaaa, wheeeew, Hello?! Haaaaaaa, whooooh," the small voice spoke in between heavy doses of air. My mind began picturing her in bed, covered in sweat and with a charming French man from whom she most certainly attributed each pant and moan. Her one hand probably handcuffed. She did, after all, txt me earlier that she has a story to tell about a pair of cuffs. I hesitated for a bit, afraid that I might have interrupted a very private event. "Kala?" I finally asked. But I had to know so I asked "Kala, are you having sex?"

She laughed and still panting said "I just got off the treadmill!" Right, like anyone was ever going to buy that! We set an eyeball for the next day and I told her to continue what she was doing.

That was my first phone conversation with Kala, the blogger who stumbled upon Like Clockwork Orange while searching for info about Qatar. Naturally, after she posted comments on my blog, I read her posts. I suddenly felt unworthy of her presence in my sphere, but I wanted so much to be rubbing elbows with such a great writer.

So you can imagine how excited I was last Sunday. I braved the sandstorm and headed for City Center. In my head I can hear Spongebob chanting over and over again `I have a new friend, I have a new friend'.

I arrived late and for a moment I was worried that she got tired of waiting and left. But there she was, sitting on the green Starbucks chair, cuddling a book, Lolita, like it was a fragile baby. I walked up to her and waited for her to look up and stand before I hugged her. "Human touch!" I exclaimed. I haven't been hugged for a long time and I forgot how warm and comforting it feels. A little longer and I would have broken down but it was just a quick friendly hug, a gesture that, for me, means 'welcome to my world'.

The world outside the blog, of course. Bloggers are not just persons chatting on the net. They are well-formed characters and with depth. When I read a blog, I view it as a series, a sitcom or a drama, depending on the theme, and the blogger leads the cast.

Thus when Kala and I met, I can't help but think of a crossover episode between two shows. Think about Ally McBeal appearing on the set of The Practice. Or Angel kicking vampire ass alongside Buffy. You get the drift. But whether she writes about this crossover or not is entirely up to her. I'm milking it as much as I can! [ LoL]

We exchanged gifts the instant we met. She gave me a Haruki Murakami book called Kafka on the Shore and I gave her some divx movies and a dirty comic strip that Martin forwarded to my email.

Anyway, we talked. A lot. She paid for lunch, I paid for coffee and dessert. Then we went to her apartment and talked some more. It was an interesting talk because most of the time we picked up from where we left off from the blog posts so the narrative was easy to follow.

She, of course, detailed the handcuff incident that happened at the airport when she arrived in Doha. And she introduced me to Mahmoud the [male] robot. Mahmoud has his own passport. I told Kala that I think Mahmoud needs a sexbuddy more than a passport.

Then, Kala showed me brilliant French comic books, Bande Dessinée or BDs, and I mentally shot myself for giving her that dirty comic strip earlier that afternoon.

Soon the light outside the building faded and it was time to go back to our tasks. Kala had to cook and I had to go back to the office. The crossover episode ends.

While I was waiting for a taxi, I told Kala that we should take a picture of our first meeting.

The start of a beautiful friendship?

In any case, somehow I know that there will be more crossover episodes. And I have yet to meet the entire cast on her show.

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Holden on to a Catcher

Doha is starting to be livable after all! Virgin ultracoolmegamusicbookstore has opened and it's one of the oases in this culture-thirsty land. I bought three books, and two of these are the same because I'm giving one to my foster brother Lee just because he can write kick-a$& stories on RPG wrestling forums. Anyway, why this book is special…it started with a book report.

I stood at the library counter holding a small thin tattered red book. I didn’t even read the author's name. At sixteen, my mind was focused on movies and music and the only books I ever read were Archie Double Digests and the Choose Your Own Adventure series. When the librarian finally stamped the date on, I threw the book inside my bag, zipped it and rushed to the other rebels-slash-outcasts flocked under one of the cafeteria gazebos where we always convened for after-school guitar sessions. A week later, I found myself digging in my waste-filled backpack searching for the little red book and cramming for a book report deadline for our Grade 10 English class.

Despite the deadline, I can't seem to get past the first page. I kept on reading the same paragraph over and over. I was so preoccupied. I wanted to be with my friends instead of at home reading. I wanted to go to the sea side with my best friend and talk till dawn. I wanted to escape from our depressing house and go home only when I was ready to sleep. You have to understand; without cable or a computer or a telephone, and being around people with mounting problems, home is the last place on my mind.

So I went out, rode a jeepney to Dunkin Donuts and began again with "To My Mother", the dedication. By the time I had my third cup of coffee and fourth coco strawberry doughnut I was already holding the last page of The Catcher in the Rye, careful not to completely tear it from the piece of tape that was holding it into place. A few moments later, I closed the book and read the name of the author: JD Salinger. Then I took another sip of my coffee and noticed a different bolder taste.

The following week I passed my report on time and got a high mark because I cheated using Barron's Booknotes. When clearance signing came, the librarian asked for an unreturned small thin tattered red book. I told her I lost it and she made me pay forty bucks. I got out of the library and saw my friends singing to a three-chord strumming. I sang with them for a while, but I can't wait to get back home. I wanted to be home. I wanted to get that red book from under my pillow and read The Catcher in the Rye again. OUT.

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Eulogy on Valentine's Day

I've been to the stage where I'm always invited to children's parties. Then debut celebrations. More recently I had quite a number of baptismal invitations. It's a sign of growth. But news of death from family and peers is one invitation you don't want to receive.

Manang Pat
Her family is by far the most tragic: A schizo mom, abandoned by their father, siblings scattered all over the country without a clear-cut future while she devoted her life to serving the better side of the family. She never had a boyfriend, never fancied fashion, remained religious and decided to stay single and celebate. Yes, the forty-year-old virgin isn't just a movie, although Manang Pat represented the female kind. She passed away a day before Valentine's Day which was a metaphor on its own because her heart gave up on her. She died of a broken heart.

She was my cousin. We lived in one house but we're not that close. But she watched over me and my brother during a very crucial stage in our lives. My mom went to work abroad, and my grandmother was bedridden. Manang Pat would cook our meals, wash our clothes and clean our rooms. She never complained and most of all she never asked for anything in return. It was a natural act for her. Most of all she wasn't bitter about it.

Yongyong
In highschool I was a bit of a loner and I hung out with the rebels, the outcasts. That's why when I stepped into college I decided to change my image. I got involved. I started to hang out with big groups. And I met Charisse and the rest of the gang. Yongyong was one of them. Yongyong reminded me of myself when I was in highschool. Shy type, quiet and private. I don't know much about him because I spent most of my time enjoying the new environment. One thing I do remember about him is that he always appeared so innocent. He would smile at whatever. He could've invented the smiley. Charisse would always sexually harass him, and in public too, and he would just laugh.

After a rough year of PT and failing, I left Riverside College. I didn't hear much from Yong after that. And I only got two major news about him, one, that he was in a terrible condition, and two, that he died a day before Valentine's Day.

Life is short. In another time I would've cried. But with the world we're in right now, death becomes an escape. They're probably one of the lucky few who got the most out of life and said farewell before the world fell into pieces.

Take care guys and have a safe journey. And yes, follow the light. OUT.

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Just Like Family

It's very rare that you find friends who make you feel at home. And with a bunch composed of virtual orphans and stowaways, it's not hard to instantly form a bond that's almost as strong as family. It's touching enough to know they'll miss you when you leave...wait til they cry. sniff.

Gonna miss you guys. Just hang in there, I'll see you again soon.

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Green Team

Dianne and Espie. My mum's pals. They're teachers at UMAH primary school and they're proud to announce that they're members of the school's green team (for the sportsfest), that they once met and were amused by Ariel and Maverick este Anthony and Derf, and that they have Brit national husbands.

Amazingly patient folk, these two waited for 30mins in the resto. The Chinese waitress brought in a different dish and they had to wait 48 years more. No thanks to the language barrier...else the waitress would've gotten the 'award' of her life. Ü

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Burger now, bar later

Antonio's restobar may not be Yeric's but I have faith that we'll soon have our own merry place. With Antonio's burger biz in its peak even Spongebob will give up flipping burgers and dine in Yeric's fancy resto...soon.

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Fare thee well...

...trading all our words for tea and sympathy...

Or coffee. So this was how we looked like on my last night out in Davao City (the last few nights before my departure we hung out in more 'grown-up' places, more talk less bump and grind). It was a confirmation of sorts--friends are family, family will be less friendly, and destiny does not know the meaning of 'perfect timing'.

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Cofi guys

Yeric and ezer hangin out at D'Barista,a new coffee shop in Davao City.

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