01/27/2026

I have a really big envy problem.

Don’t really know where it came from, but it’s just another one of those indisputable, obvious things. Water is wet, our country is in debt. Things like that. I find it really hard to be content, which is ironic, since I’ve already got a lot of things going for me. Good grades, achievements, friends, hobbies and interests I can turn to.

But it’s never enough, really.

There’s always that one point missed. That one competition where you placed second. That one friend you lost touch with. Every time I feel jealous, a cold chill creeps up my back, but I sweat like I’m standing through hellfire.

And I guess, I’m writing about this now because I just felt that same chill minutes ago. School event with a student band performing. Aforementioned band ditched me a while ago for entirely valid reasons, but I’m spiraling again, gritting my teeth so hard they’re probably weathering.

The decision made sense. I’m not that good of a frontman, nor that good of a band member, and I’m extremely hung up over one person involved. It doesn’t help that I’ve always dreamed about being in a band—and I still do in the daily interval of me riding a tricycle back home.

I'm in a pit of perpetual discontentment. At this point (usually, I'd want to front) I’d be fine with playing rhythm guitar. Or the damn harmonica if I have to. Anything.

It doesn’t help that whenever a person gets caught up in my jealousy, I mistake it for something else: pining, affection. If I deem someone better than me, gorgeous, more talented, I’d want to smother them with my presence until they suffocate, twiddle my thumbs in the corner and sulk like a kicked puppy if they pay me no mind. I turn obnoxious and I tend to peacock, neg, badmouth them under the guise of hatred rather than an excuse to talk about them at all.

This has been a pattern for many years, I have noticed, and each time it turns out sour. No surprise there.

I’m not even particularly into relationships at all. I do not wish to court nor be courted. But I guess, knowing that I’m not perfect, I want to at least be regarded it by associating myself with someone else who is? All of this is strange and childish, and in the process I’ve lost my passion for various things. Guitar, art, my appearance.

Someday, I just want to be capable of being happy for someone for having something I don’t. Hating them doesn’t give me the things I lack. I should be smart enough to know that.

MOOD: Frustrated

FOOD: Choco Mallows

SONG: Knife Prty -Deftones

01/15/26

Well, it's hell week. As I'm typing this I'm still in class, and I've got two dioramas due, an Arnis performance, and a contest entry I should finalize. Had four hours of sleep today due to revising and spent my first waking hour doing my makeup even though I don't really like doing it cuz of sensory issues--all for the contest I'm joining. Well, I'm hoping I'll place.

Speaking of placing, I'm getting really nervous for RSPC. Someone I competed against like, 6 years ago reached out to me which was really nice and sweet of them but my impostor syndrome's acting up again. God, time really has gone by, hasn't it? And I've spent that whole time coasting and doing things I really didn't want to do.

I mean, I joined copyreading events when I first started out in campus-journ and that really miffed me. Then I got transferred to feature which entailed writing every after class, which also miffed me. But I liked it more and ended up placing a lot, but the question is did I ever really enjoy it, did it ever really speak to me aside from all the accolades?

I like praise. I really do, I operate on it and mentally rip my own hair out every time I'm criticized. And I get crticized more lately, which is warranted of course I'm just stupidly sensitive. I have writing training every Saturday which I always find ways to skip out on but this week I attended and flopped so bad, the coach was giving that appeasing nodding and thin-lipped smile you only give to like, gormless people. I hated it and moped for a whole two days.

This transfers over to my future plans for myself, or the lack thereof. In the past, I'd confidently say I wanted to be a lawyer since I was really into debating, but was I really into all that or just the medals? Did I want to be a lawyer because I wanted to or because it sounded good on paper? Right now I feel like it's the latter. The thought of being a corporate lawyer or a defense attorney bores me to death. In a perfect world where everyone's granted what they want, I'd be in a band and people would make fancams of me Kirk Hammett style, but no chance in hell is that happening. Right now, if I'm asked what college I'm going to I'll facetiously say "Mag-d-dropout ho ako."

I get flack from my relatives for my newfound uncertainty, but honestly that makes sense. I was the class valedictorian, twice. I've won in various competitions. I do the best I can. So me saying I don't know what in the jiminy crickets I'll be doing in the next five years is unhinged. I don't know. I don't care. Maybe I should, but I rolled a Nat 1 on Wisdom for that.

MOOD: Tired

FOOD: Tofu Sisig from 7/11

SONG: India Rubber - Radiohead

12/30/2025

Engaging with content from any member of SOAD must be a legitimate form of self-sabotage I fear.

John supports Trump. Shavo is…hormonal to say the least. Serj is the middle-aged equivalent of a dubai chocolate matcha labubu carabiner type of guy (a regrettable string of words I must admit), and Daron is just out here being a keyboard warrior to an extent that is not at all indicative of his ever-increasing age.

It’s just crazy, his obsession with the ”far-middle" as he calls it. I have no words.

I get where he's coming from (there is indeed a problem/needless discourse of "you're not progressive enough!!!" which is... still not comparable to any republican atrocities I'm aware of, though I'm not american), but it gets to a point. And to have such thought provoking lyrics as:

“I’m sick of the left
I’m sick of the right
Cancel me I don't give a fuck”

--is crazy!!!

SOAD was (is? I don't know at this point) an intrinsically political band that voiced out about the Armenian genocide (and extended to the marginalized and those in power who use citizens as pawns in needless war), and to see a solid half of their members not really adhering to their discography’s supposed ideologies is jarring.

Don’t even get me started on the music video for that specific song that I cannot even remember the title of. The Black Lives Matter symbol appearing on the “I’m sick of the left” part and a swastika on the “I’m sick of the right” part is an interesting choice.

Well, Daron’s whole discography is just…interesting. Really tried listening to “Addicted to the Violence” but every song is just edginess for the sake of edginess pumped up to the max. Lyricism straight out of middle-school, and I'm tempted to give an in-depth review of each.

I really don’t know with this guy.

Ugh. So much for “We can’t afford to be neutral on a moving train.” And to think, these guys revealed their true colors right after I spent a bit of money on their work. I mean except for John. Lol.

MOOD: Befuddled

FOOD: BBQ Sauce chips

SONG: Beans -Kurt Cobain

TOPIC: Press conference ft. Laura T. David, Ph.D

EVENT: WordCup

CATEGORY: News Writing

A scientist from the University of the Philippines (UP) divulged a patent for a semi-automated fish census system during a press conference held at Subic, Zambales.

A promising endeavor, this new tool could serve as a convenient way to assess the population density, species identification and biomass estimation of fish within an area—which are needed variables in discerning the success of reef rehabilitation and protection initiatives.

Dr. Laura T. David, a professor and scientist hailing from the UP Marine Sciences Institute, expressed that expeditions along the West Philippine Sea showed that the number of fish species and the abundance of fish have witnessed a dramatic drop between the years 1993-2019.

“A new patent has been developed that Filipinos should be proud of, though,” Dr. David stated. The patent in question is called the Fish-i, a fish census device based in the Philippines that could aid in the formulation of strategies for improving reef health and resilience, and assessing productivity of already existing strategies.

It is a great improvement from the traditional method used by projects such as the Indo Ocean Project, wherein a diver is involved. It relies on the divers’ skill in accurately counting and identifying fish, as well as accounting for divers’ fatigue.

Quite often, the fish’s behavioral response to the diver is also a distraction. The individual is often burdened with the decision to include or exclude a fish as it swims into or away from the chosen sample area.

To combat this, according to the official Fish-i website, their system consists of two major parts: a camera rig consisting of 2 to 8 cameras oriented parallel to the seabed for maximum scalability. It is mounted on a stand with 4 legs, and includes a video analyzer software that performs stereo analysis and image recognition on the collected videos.

Video clips containing estimates of fish size, density, and species diversity are the main outputs of the Fish-I. Through this method, minimal disturbance in the water is maintained.

Additionally, the stereo camera rig and fish video analyzer software are accessible to divers who can situate the system in any location, and examine its output at any given time.

Dr. David highlights that the Fish-i patent is one of the most important developments in regards to the addressing of sea level rise and its effects. She states that records of the census are available for later review and archiving.

TOPIC: "Titser Annie" I-Witness by Kara David

EVENT: DSPC

CATEGORY: Feature Writing

What is the journey to enlightenment? For one woman, it takes 16 rivers, 10 inches of mud, and throwing away 14 years of comfort. She seeks not Nirvana, nor an adherence to the philosophies of Lao Tzu, but rather a calling of her own.

Teacher Annie, the eponym of Kara David’s I-Witness documentary, rivals the treks of Indiana Jones to tend to her own prized treasure: the indigenous children attending Labo Elementary School in Bansod, Mindoro Oriental.

With sweat falling in rivulets across her sun-browned forehead, she maintains that this is her life’s mission, to proffer her capabilities to those who need it most. Even so, her struggles are palpable. Hailing from a cushy air-conditioned private school, she had never dreamed of maneuvering through mountain paths and getting sullied by the elements. But this change, in her words, makes her feel like a “real person.”

So then, if the ones who teach struggle, what of those who are taught?

Winding Path

The most treacherous of paths end up being the most rewarding. In a classroom of pupils clapping happily and singing along to a ditty about the days of the week, that truth is evident to Teacher Annie as she then guides them back into their seats. After surviving another ill-advised journey, she hands out wafers at snack time, her worries rippling away like the lake water she stepped foot in just moments ago.

The blackboard is cracked, stained with the years’ accumulation of chalk dust. Yet, she treats it like any other classroom all the same, delving into fractions, grammar, and history with a surprising ease. Her seeds of toil have borne sweet fruit, persevering against cracked soil.

But why must everything sweet persevere instead of flourish? Why must the doers of good deeds and its benefactors get choked up by thorns?

Muddied Waters

The Mangyan people of Bansod play their own part when they can. Wading through the same rivers as Teacher Annie, the older students transport heaps of books that would otherwise be left to the growing ferocity of the waters. Initially, they were skeptical about sending their children to school due to not unfounded notions about outsiders. They came around, to everyone’s benefit, but it was—

In the whole of Labo Elementary School, there are only two teachers for grades 1–6, who have chosen to halve their responsibilities and have no choice but to assist four grade levels each, including adult Mangyan students who have taken up on learning.

Most of them, even the elderly, have difficulties in writing their own name, through no fault of their own. Inaccessible education has long been a problem for indigenous people, a blight on the equity our country strives for. There are only so many “Teacher Annie’s” in the world, only so many exceptions. Must we be content on tales of resilience, of thinking them as heroes, rather than paint a better landscape for those left in the margins?

Paving Roads

For those like Teacher Annie and her pupils, physical and proverbial roads will let them tread a better journey. The appropriate resources, staff, and classrooms are paramount (no pun intended) in letting them go beyond the foot of a mountain.

Education should not be the road less travelled. Learners and educators alike must not be left to swim in muddied waters for the distant hope of a clear trail.

For when a system is stretched as taut and thin as cobwebs, who knows when it might snap?

TOPIC: In the current political circus, who is your hero?

EVENT: WordCup

CATEGORY: Feature Writing

For 40 years, my grandfather was a court stenographer, though you wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at his hands. I remember them less for the polished clatter of keys and more for the way they sifted through plumage, soil, and feed. He kept his prized poultry in the lot beside our house, their coops partitioned with a rusty wire fence that bent over like the old man himself. Like some geriatric Bruno Mars, he sported fedoras often, boasting a whole collection encompassing plaid and velvet. “To look sharp,” he claimed, though the real purpose was to disguise the ever-widening bald spot on his head. It was his secret, or so he thought— a secret no hat could quite keep when the wind picked up.

These small practices and stubborn affectations were how I knew him: a man equal parts dignity and feathered shirts.

His peers lived differently. An insertion of a word here, a little elimination there, and suddenly a stenographer’s salary ballooned into two-story houses shellacked in white, and luxury automobiles that announced their arrival before they even parked. To cheat the record was easy enough, and profitable besides. But while their driveways gleamed and their wallets thickened, my grandfather kept his hands clean and transcripts unblemished in the name of sustaining his family with integrity. Back then, he puttered along in a highlighter-green and yellow tricycle, ferrying me home from first grade with the solemnity of a chauffeur.

He never spoke much about his years in the courtroom (not that I would’ve understood any of it), yet I often wonder now what insights he tucked away for me. I have chosen to pursue a career in law myself, and I can’t help but think of all the things he might have told me had he lived longer. Would he have warned me about the tedious jargon that piles up in courtrooms, of the pro bono and the cui bono—or laughed at my own attempts to look “sharp” in a suit the way he once did in his velvet hats? Would he have given me the kind of advice no law professor from the Big Four ever could — the kind about integrity that murmurs as quietly as the morning ritual of scattering grain?

And maybe this is why, in the current climate, I think of him more often. It seems like our government is full of exacerbated iterations of my grandfather’s associates. Each day the headlines unravel new strands of misconduct: shady programs, appropriated funds, and leaders whose right hand lays across their chest while the other stuffs their pockets. My grandfather never held office, never delivered fiery speeches on the Senate floor, and never had his name printed in bold headlines . At the same time never traded truth for convenience, never bartered his conscience for a quick payout, and the biggest dishonesty of his life was the state of his hairline.

All that to say, hats off to my grandfather and his unparalleled veracity, though I’m sure he would had preferred to keep one on.