Last night, I did my laundry and, as I was hanging up my underwear to dry, the inferior-quaity clip hanger broke under the gravity of the dripping-wet panties, leaving two unsightly scratch wounds on my left arm.

I "cooked" some tuna meatloaf on my shiny new red oven toaster. Scooped out the crispy rice from the mini Matrix rice cooker onto my mustard-colored plate. While eating the very humble dish of tuna meatloaf, crispy rice, potato chips and ketchup in the solitude of my tiny room/pad, I marvelled at the thought that this meal cost me only P23, while eating out would have been a heavy P70.

I dare suffer what many would consider substandard conditions because, for me, it spells I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-C-E. It means being able to do what I want when I want after office hours. It means being able to make a mess without being scolded. It means being able to organize things without being interrupted. It means having nobody to ask favors from, no maid at my disposal, but also having nobody telling me what to do. As long as I'm in MY space, my sanctuary, my territory. I relish this freedom even as I lay in the stillness of my room, listening to either soft music on my Ipod or the sound of electric fan blades whirring. I am alone but I am more afraid of dependence than of ghosts.

When I moved out, they were worried I might not have enough money. Truth be told, I used up my life savings--to pay the deposit, the rent, the 2-inch thick bed cushion, the toaster, the rice cooker, the mirror, the exhaust fan, and all the other tiny household objects (like pot holders, electric outlets and hooks) that we take for granted when we do not have to spend for them.

Now, going home is a treat. I relish the home-cooked food. I relish every moment spent with my family. I relish talk-time and TV-time with little Isabel, Tessa and Cristina. I look forward to holidays, moreso because it means going home. And yet, when time comes for me to leave, I am relieved. And I relish my trip back to the tiny room I also call home.

I was walking along Atis Street on my way to the office on a perfect sunless morning.  I counted the houses as I walked along, checking to see if they had mailboxes and wondering where the mailman put the mail in houses that didn't have mailboxes.

If they put it on top of the post or under the gate, if it rains, the letter might get wet. Or worse, somebody might play a prank on them (mailbox-less house owners) and steal their electric bills, and so they won't get to pay, and then they'll be surprised when, one day, they won't have lights in their house and then they'll remember that they haven't paid the bill and wonder where the heck the bill went...

Then, from out of nowhere comes this mango peel strategically placed on the side of the road.  My left foot (very unluckily) steps on it and slips, leaving me cascading to the pavement. I get up, pick up my fallen belongings, and am disgusted upon seeing my left knee bleeding and even moreso disgusted when I saw that my shoes had been very grossly stained by overripe mango gunk. Then, I check to see if anybody witnessed the spectacle that is ME. There is only one manong, about 10 meters away, on his trisikad collecting bottles. He didn't see, or if he did, he didn't care. I heave a sigh of relief. Then I laugh at myself.

Perfect! I think.

I learned two lessons this morning:

1. Enjoy the scenery but watch your step, lest you get a bloody knee. 

2. Stuff like this doesn't only happen in cartoons; it happens in real life too. 

Currently feeling: wounded