After having completed the stuff I needed to complete in PGH I declared that I would not want to go back to Manila for a long time unless absolutely necessary, primarily because of the stress of commuting. I’ve stayed in Manila for over 13 years and haven’t particularly experienced anything life-threatening, but the horror stories and the rain and the heat and the traffic and the risks of stepping on human feces (insert other WHINES here) are just too aggravating.

              
 Until one hot day when I got a text message that I needed to sign a Form 5. I immediately commuted to Taft Avenue and was in Rob Ermita by 8pm. With much elation I saw Uni-Horned Beef Jerky Alanis Whore reviewing for our upcoming oncology boards. She has successfully deleted her Candy Crush after much rebukation (not a true word), but was getting jittery from withdrawal because the people around her were playing the game with the demented circus-funeral background music in full blast. I also happened to see Frichmond and Queen. Queen was in exercise clothes and I immediately said, “ZUMBA?!” and I was right. Apparently I learned something during our medical oncology mid-year convention in Nasugbu a few days before, where I’ve heard the word “zumba” for the first time. During the mid-year a zumba expert suddenly went on stage and taught us how to do zumba. All the oncologists tried to mirror her moves, but we weren’t dancing so much as wriggling awkwardly. After 3 J-Lo songs I whined “ilang kanta ba to?!” Apparently there were… 12. 12 continuous dance tracks for someone who gets dyspneic after climbing one flight of stairs.

               
After a quick chit chat with Frichmond and Queen I ran to the oncology office to sign the bleeping form 5 and immediately took a jeep along Taft where I sat in front. Everything was cheerio until the guy sitting beside me suddenly giggled and talked to himself. He made weird facial tics and snickered. I knew that there and then he could just pull out a knife and slit my throat, but he eventually got off the jeep. I disembarked in Buendia and as I pulled my wallet from my back pocket I noted that the pocket has a hole. My wallet was still there so I thought it was just one of my ripped, gusgusin jeans. I have so many gusgusin jeans. It wasn’t until I got home that my brother Chiroptera noted that the hole was in fact a long, clean, vertical cut, obviously from a slash. I placed my hand inside the slash and was able to touch my bare ass. The cut was so deep that I was able to… touch myself.

               
“Obviously the weird facial tics guy was not after your wallet, but after your ass,” Sith Lord said.

“Obviously. I may be old and gray, but I still got it. Oh yes I still got it.” I said.