The universe must be wonky this time of the year— it’s almost the weekend and I have yet to lust for alcohol. Most of you would probably see this as a good thing, but I’m telling you now: IT. IS. NOT.

You see, children, there was a time in my life when I was actually sober for roughly six months. By “sober”, I mean one beer a week (usually on a Saturday night after dinner and a movie). I also remember that for about two months during my senior year in college when my bloodstream and whatever biological pathways that alcohol courses through in my bodeh were completely— and I mean COMPLETELY— devoid of alcohol.

It all sounds preposterous, I know, and you might think that I’m bullshitting you or perhaps writing about a girl named Melba who lives with her grandmother Zenaida (because her parents are OFWs in Dubai) in some rundown apartment unit in Novaliches. Melba whose hobbies include cross-stitching the face of Jesus and macrame. Melba whose biggest secret is that she has a crush on her next-door neighbor, Jojo, and that she collects his discarded candy wrappers and keeps them in a box under her bed. Melba who drinks Cali Shandy and whose ideal night out would be trolling her village’s streets at 10 in the evening dressed in a Lee Pipes or a Jag Thug shirt and Dr Lee denim shorts, both two sizes too small. With her cellphone in hand.

No, kids, I was writing about myself. I don’t always fail at taking a shot at sobriety.

My weekend is less than an hour away (I’m on leeeeave! I’m on leeeeeeave!) and it’s a bit puzzling that getting hammered isn’t part of the plan. I don’t even have a plan. I’ve texted half the people in my phonebook asking if anyone wanted to watch The Golden Compass with me and not one of them had the clemency to reply to poor li’l DESPERATE-FOR-A-FUCKING-FRIDAY-NIGHT-OUT me.

Is it because they’re scared I’ll end up dragging them to the nearest watering hole as soon as the movie ends? Is it because I disgusted them when, a few days ago, I texted them asking if they could hook me up with Valium or Stilnox or a hosto from Tondo or all three? Or is it because I only have two people in my phone book and instead of texting lover (who is impotent and would rather fap off to motobikes than spend time with me), I sent the message to my mom (who, as we speak, is probably disowning me and packing all my Antipolo belongings in a cardboard box to store in our carport. Or in the vacant lot beside our house. For the cats and dogs to mangle and defecate on)? Or is it because I’m black?

Yeah. It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?

Here’s a picture from last Saturday night, taken at Cubao X during Lomomanila’s Christmas party. With me is— no, not Melba— Mina, whom I went to college with. Now let’s play a game of Spot The Difference.

Is it our hair? No.
Our eyes (she’s winking, I’m not)? No.
Our shirts? No.
She has more things dangling from her neck? No.

WHAT THEN, FOR FUCK’S SAKE???

She has a degree in International Studies. I don’t.