I live in a jungle. Like Sonny Salinger (J.D., the Catcher in the Rye genius) I live a hermit-like existence Saturdays and Tuesdays and afternoons of Mondays; the rest of the week I spend in Manila at the College of Saint Benilde, exhausting my noggins with toxic brainwork.

I am a nerd. I am hot.

I love it here in this queer mountain city. The thrift clothing warehouses most especially. Sweet shirts from Japan and Seoul for a dollar, Cinnamoroll dolls for the price of nothing. My latest acquisition: a Victorian blouse from Connie's of Tokyo. Hello Kitties were all over one filthy shelf. I wanted to pay for their salvation: for the price of a dollar. However, I thought their previous owners might have puked on them (if a toddler) or chewed on their ribboned ear at the height of a shared pleasure with some horny bastard (if old enough to try the sweet evils of life). So I let one Kitty in her chinoiserie dress fall back on its spot free from my clutch.

La Noceda. No, it is not a whore house where you get a bottle of cheap beer with a consolation price: a fat slut with bad teeth. La Noceda is a bakery cum chicken feed store cum eatery. I like the place. All wood. Classic clay oven. Sales girls who don't stare because your facial skin is fairer than their powder laced olive cheeks. Salty dough. The paper bags. I am shallow.

Sanctuario. Overlooking Taal. Generous couches with huge lemon colored pillows. Jazz in the background. Good herb odor emenating from the downstairs kitchen. Food orgasm at every visit. Honest smiles. Chimes at the door.



Raleigh doesn't impress me. I dread its foreign feel.