No longer seventeen in three

Last Friday I found myself waiting for Icka to get dismissed. All the business I thought I had to go through meant me leaving my jacket at M208 and not getting it until many hours later. As normally happens for Sir Groyon's film classes, they get dismissed after 17.30; in this case, they were out fifteen minutes later, but Ian said they went out once thirty minutes after. I got my jacket, nevertheless, and found myself giving her another tight hug.

Today was our turn - well, sort of. We finished watching 400 Blows and left the classroom at 17.45. We've squashed another meeting for our poetry recital tomorrow, but I've at least explained things to Kizia, who's to explain things to Josh. I thought about my jacket: I didn't bring it, but thinking that my meeting with Rainy was just something that could've been done through a text message, I found it funny to make a fuss out of it two days ago.

And it's normal that buses at this time are hard to find along Taft Avenue. If they're there, either they're full to the brim, or they're provincial - think about it, though, I do live in a province, and I go home daily to the province, although it's closer to a suburb than you think. So I stood at the corner of Taft and Castro, waiting for a bus to come. I had a small burrito earlier, because I thought the meeting would take long - even Jaja thought Rainy could've been at the SC office where she was heading - but, as it turns out, I could have eaten more.

Kim suddenly poked my arm, and suddenly I had a companion. Yes, she normally drives to school, but Mondays for her are color coding days, so she can't use either car to get her here. She was worried about getting home. To be specific, she has to get home: her dad is in Hanoi covering the APEC conference for CBS News, and she also has to work on that interview transcript. I haven't done mine; no interview has happened, but only because I myself am pressed for time. At least ours are due on Thursday.

All the buses are full, and so were the jeepneys that could have led us to Buendia, where we can board more cooperative forms of public transport. And nobody wants to ride an ordinary bus. Indeed, we saw one that resembled a sardine can, and thought of it as double torture.

We got in a bus at 18.15, and I was the one standing up. Unfortunately there wasn't any headroom on my spot, beside the seats way back where Kim was. The guy beside me, though, was having a harder time; he is much taller. Nothing much happened, really - only Kim almost getting into another bad mood fit, having gone through a migraine. Ditto for me, who's eternal depression meant I just wanted to go home and fall asleep, but just can't because, initially, the seat I got on to - beside Kim - was as hot as an oven. We moved seats three times, I think, then Kim went down her place and I tried to sleep, but can't.

Mondays are usually my reprieves, for some particular reason. Mondays, however manic that song claims it to be, somehow has become my escapist day; of course, you watch those films and try to determine whether Antoine Doinel is just plain crazy for stealing a typewriter. I've been getting images all day, and the radio can't drown it out. In fact, I switched to Love Radio for a couple of hours and had them shut out - it's effective, actually, for I ended up laughing almost too loud for comfort.

And, as people ask me about that test tomorrow, which meant nothing much but admitted gaps to fill, I don't think anything else will keep me occupied. The poetry recital is tomorrow; I'm still anxious whether I could pull it off with a fading voice after supporting Manny Pacquiao all too vocally. I'm even more anxious for the portfolio I worked on. It looks so good, but then again it isn't printed out yet.

Oh well, It's Tuesday tomorrow. I am supposed to panic to pieces, and then get distracted all over again. I'll have to get used to seeing stripes again and feel some sort of apprehension.

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