Friends Unlmtd.

I was born not to be a friendly person. Not even close. I grew up to be an introvert. Thanks to those numerous hours I spent alone back during my childhood years. To me, friends meant the TV, my books about frogs becoming princes and ladies forgetting about their slippers and curfew hours, and the painted green walls of our house. That spelled out FUN for me. And I know, it spelled out ABNORMALITY for other kids of my age. Well, at least, I was sane enough not to have created my own imaginary friend.

But the irony is, I am now a part of a barkada with twenty people in; I can list fifteen people or so as close friends; and I have a Friendster account and accounts in some other social networks on the Net. That could be easily described as a violation to what an introvert is supposed to be, especially on how it is defined in the dictionary. Maybe I really am not. Maybe I only was.

I find it hard, however, to be that friendly to everybody. I always find myself retreating and distancing myself when the environment becomes too much social and cordial for me to handle. I am still the loner I’ve always been. Perhaps because I don’t feel like trusting every person I meet. Like I can’t bear to have them scrutinizing and judging me. Like people are cruel and impersonal and callous. That’s why I was rooted to fairy tale figures who I know were unreal but were so ideal.

When I ceased being introvert, I can’t remember. Perhaps it was when I realized that being aloof and reserved didn’t do any good to me. Maybe that was when I realized that proverbs like ‘No man is an island.’ made much sense that I give it credit for. Or maybe when I started having real, alive, and human friends, rather than non-living entities like my fairy tale books. Or most likely, when finally I learned that there was no really harm in trusting other people. What made me realize this, I honestly don’t know. It felt like it just came out naturally of me – the need to have friends.

Friends. I’ve always found it hard and tedious to describe them. Especially so, that they are just an inch away from being too indescribable and to define what they do to me would not suffice what they truly bring me; it’ll be just an understatement. But now, let me try.

It does feel great to have a friend, to have friends. They make you realize your faults and help you appreciate your triumphs as a person. True, for it was my friends that woke me up from that sluggish dimension I usually envelope myself in. Though sometimes your personalities are as contrasting as oil and water, that link you have acts as an emulsifier that straightens any difference you might have. Like in physics -- opposites attract. They bring you genuine laughter no sitcom could ever give you. They make the best guidance counselors, best solution-givers to most of your troubles. They are the only ones you wouldn’t loathe for telling you how hideous you’ve been, how stupid, how wrong or how foul you are. You hate them for doing that sometimes, but afterwards, love will reign as you know that they have just told you the truth. They understand you even when it does require much effort to do so. They stand by you and not only that actually. They fight for and with you, they cry with and for you, they laugh at, with, and for you, they make themselves stupid for and with you. They are the world’s greatest treasures. Like family. Like beaus.

I don’t believe that soul mates come in the form of prince charmings and love of your life's, they come in the form of partners-in-crime and BFFs.

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This was the first time I ever tried talking, writing about friendship. This one goes out to my bestfriend Brail, Pia, the bestest and worst female friend I can have, (haha), my only JAE, my sis Yanie and in a special way, Kier, whose ideas gave way for this essay.

Call me... PICO

PICO – that’s how most people call me. Like it has been etched into my forehead in red, bold, capital letters. Never mind what my first name is or if I ever really had one. Never mind how my mom would be such in a fury when she hears you calling me that way. (She would probably go berserk and shout at you saying, “Hey, my son has a name too!”) But no, that wouldn’t stop you from calling me by my surname. Because, for you and for the many other people I’ve come to know, I will and I shall be Pico forever. (Well, I know I am Pico forever, no need to mention that.)

Oh yes. It’s a rather consoling fact that most people are addressed by their surname in college. Most instructors employ that style. But you’ll know that it has gone beyond normalcy already when your friend introduces you to another like this: “Ui. ‘Eto nga pala si Pico.” Ouch. Haven’t I got a name?

But don’t get me wrong. I don’t harbor any grudge at my surname. I don’t hate it, either. But back in kindergarten, I did. My ‘unusual’ surname made me a regular victim and object of pranks in my school. I was often teased and ridiculed and laughed at. Just because my surname sounded odd to them. Just because it sounded like piko, the game of hopscotch. Or like that stupid digging tool I always see my grandpa use in his gardening. All of those nasty remarks were bitterly accepted by me. But that got me complaining to Papa, why he couldn’t have given me a regular surname like Santos, or Ramos, or Garcia, maybe. I loathed, what to my understanding, was an ugly surname.

But I realized that I couldn’t linger being immature that long. People grow. And so, I did too. My perspective of my surname changed as I aged. I tried looking for what my surname meant. Perhaps, I thought, this would be the best way to start appreciating it, knowing that it’s not just all about hopscotch. I browsed through a Spanish dictionary since it sounded Hispanic to me. (Though it sounded more like Filipino, except for that letter C in it.) And it says that PICO means PEAK in Hispanic. PEAK, like mountain PEAK. The highest point of something! The apex! The zenith! The summit! (Oh yeah. Like it mattered that much. Pagbigyan.)

Then I realized that a surname doesn’t really define what you are or who you are. And I don’t really need to be a Santos or Ramos or Garcia to make me the normal person that I am. Having an odd surname like mine didn’t make me less human. Instead, it stood out as a symbol of my uniqueness over the others. (Well, I ain’t saying all the rest aren’t as unique as I am. )

Now I’m prouder than ever. No inhibitions of my surname. Because this is my father’s legacy and his father’s before him. I’ll carry out with confidence and dignity. I’ll take care of it like a treasure, a gem. So, now let me introduce myself to you. I am PICO. And I’m proud to be.

But anyway, my name’s Michael. Now you decide what sounds better.

The Last Dandelion

Dandelions were over the place, the wind blowing them gently through the landscape of greens. And he was there, your hands outstretched, like reaching for mine. I hesitated. I remember you leaving me alone on that cold and gloomy corridor. But then, your eyes twinkled like the stars we used to gaze at when we were much younger. When things were a lot less complicated than how they are now.

I began slowly, calculating my little steps, counting how many footsteps should I take. Fifty. Oh no… a hundred? Or two, maybe? But it seemed like eternity. Like the hands of the clock froze to death. And I feared this was just a faux. A hallucination. A fantasy. Then I looked straight to see if you were still there.

Of course, you weren’t anymore…

I should have cried, I know. But I can’t anymore. Not now, not now that I have seemed to emptied my tear glands of whatever that was inside of them. Maybe this was really the end. And so, I picked one dandelion, made a wish, and let it flew away.

My wish? You. And us. Again.