One of the things I like about my two trips to Singapore so far is the breakfast buffet.

It is a stark difference, after all, to breakfast during my trip to Hong Kong. The "inclusive breakfast" with the hotel reservation apparently meant loads of gift certificates to McDonald's. It's exciting at first, since their Big Breakfast includes muffins (before it became an option in the Philippines) and you can also buy a cup of corn alongside. Four mornings of McDonald's isn't really what you call a culinary adventure, after all.

Then again, Singaporean breakfast buffets isn't exactly a culinary adventure, either. There are items that my first trip last year and the trip I'm currently doing right now have in common: hash browns, fried noodles, fruit platters, soya milk, a chef who does all the omelettes. But it's a good chance to try out the things that I don't really find back home. I fell in love with muesli last year. Yesterday, I realized that poached eggs are pretty greasy. And feta cheese makes me feel slightly luxurious even if it's a bit too salty for my tastes.

I didn't want to stuff myself during breakfast, especially since I'm alone for parts of the trip, and I figured I'll give myself a chance to try out as much Singaporean cuisine as possible. (That is the point, right?) So, yesterday, before I picked up a plate, I scanned the buffets and made a mental note of what's on offer. The pastries on Thursday, the omelette on Friday, the muesli on Saturday. That kind of thing.

So you can imagine my frustration when I got down to breakfast today and realized I won't enjoy it that much.

No, it's not the chefs' fault. It can't be mine either, since I always find something enjoyable about my food, unless it's absolutely repulsive. I can blame it on eating alone, and the over-efficiency of the staff at the Sheraton Towers.

I'm travelling with my dad, who's here on a business trip. My mom was supposed to go with him, but it ended up being me on the plane Wednesday morning. Today, he was out early for a long series of meetings, and to boot, I overslept, so I woke up before eight alone in the hotel room. He told me anyway that I'll be eating breakfast alone today, and I was a bit worried that if he gets breakfast before me, I wouldn't be able to eat, even if there are two meals per morning with our room. I didn't need to worry, though: I got myself a seat, asked for coffee, and began eating a croissant before heading to the serious stuff.

I left for the omelette and grabbed myself some fried noodles for a change. I returned and realized my half-empty coffee and my copy of The Straits Times disappeared from my table. Apparently the staff went in and cleaned my table while I was out having an omelette done. These guys are so quick. Yesterday I saw one grab an empty plate from a patron just as the poor guy is putting the last bite of whatever it is he was eating in his mouth. So much for being alert. No need to worry: I went back to the table and grabbed myself a glass of apple juice, another one of those things that I started to appreciate upon landing here, apart from grilled tomatoes and chilis on everything. And that newspaper was a hotel copy: the one they delivered to my room was, well, in my room.

Minutes later, I left to refill my glass, this time with water. I got back and saw one of the staff cleaning up my table - and the odd part is, I'm not yet done with my food! I think I had half a sausage and some noodles left on my plate. "I'm not yet done!" I told the girl, and she apologized, realizing I'm not yet done. She left taking my omelette, which was far from consumed. So much for scheduling.

Frustrated, I got back to the buffet table, grabbing some bacon and a couple more sausages. I returned to see my glass of water, barely consumed, gone from the table - as well as my cutlery, my placemat, and the salt and pepper shakers. I got another apology from the staff, and I took the unused plate from the other side of the table - it was for two, after all. I think the Indian guys beside me were amused at my predicament. I left my camera at the table, thinking it'll tell the staff that someone's still eating.

I got back to the buffet table to grab some dim sum, and I returned to see my utensils gone again. My new glass of water was gone, too. I left to get yet another glass, and returned, and I was relieved they didn't pick up the plate, too. Then again, it was still a full plate. Well, more of a nobody-has-touched-it-yet plate. And my camera wasn't gone, either. I just finished my breakfast, went back up my room to plan my walk across Orchard after lunch, and got down to write this blog.

Is it because they think I'm done eating? Maybe, but my plate isn't done yet. Then again, many others leave their plates half-empty when they're full, and nothing of this sort happens. Then again, I'm in a rich country, one that has a bit more of a margin when it comes to unfinished stuff. Then again, the price of mutton is rising, and you can't just throw mutton sausages away. Whatever.

I coughed on my way back up. The dim sum got its revenge. And probably the staff, too, because I found the whole scenario amusing enough to warrant a blog entry. Nobody will get the message, though.

Believe it or not, ladies, it's actually easy to annoy me.

First, you should be able to find me. I'm actually easy to spot. I always have a pair of earphones plugged in, and my iPod is either on my back pocket or inside my bag. I wear glasses, the usual black frames, not as thick unless I'm using my replacements. My usual glasses has a crack on my right lens. My replacements only look chipped.

I'm usually in a mall during my lunch break, which happens at one in the afternoon in most cases. I often avoid the lunch rush, and I get more work done that way. Or, you can see me walking the same route at six in the evening, unless I'm getting a haircut or passing by the supermarket. That's through the Shang, up the second floor, up the fourth floor, up the fifth floor, across EDSA via the MRT station, and down the stairs to the shuttle terminal nearby. Valerie taught me that. It's the same escalators if you enter through the restaurants.

You just have to spot me going to an escalator, because more often than not I'm alone. You can't do this if you're alone, though. You have to be with a guy, preferably your boyfriend, and you have to look preppy.

Now, get on the escalator before I get on it. You have to be directly in front of me: more often than not, I'll let you in first. (This actually works better in an escalator going up; escalators going down shouldn't be called escalators because you're not escalating.) While I end up staring either at the floor or your butt, which is inevitable, look at the guy beside you and laugh. Laugh arbitrarily. And then have the guy put his arm around your waist, like you usually do. And then have the guy kiss you in the cheek. Receive the kiss - it should be in the cheek, although you can risk locking your lips for maximum effect. And most importantly, just look happy.

What will happen is this: I'll snap out of my solitude and notice whatever you're doing. I'll look up, because I can't resist not looking at something that's moving - I must be a motion detector, a faulty one - and I'll get pissed at your public display of affection, although it isn't really as revolting as that couple I saw exchanging tongue when I was still in college. Still, you would have managed to show me the one thing I don't have: someone to do just that to.

One. As the story goes, I was in a restaurant, meeting a friend, and I told that friend what I have been up to the past year or so, which is pointless, I said, because nothing has changed anyway, except, perhaps, for an extra boost from where you least expect it. And that friend wondered about why I lived through the same thing for the past year, and I didn't have an answer. I do not exactly have anything to hold on to. I do not know why I am holding on to it. Unless, of course, I'm holding on to something else and everything else is mere circumstance.

Two. As another story goes, I was, well, somewhere, meeting an acquaintance, and we knew the same person, and I asked about the said person, and the acquaintance admits that, "yes, I know that guy, and that guy hates me, and I don't know why." And I thought, shame, because there is a chance of restoring whatever has to be restored.

Three. I know there is nothing to be restored. In fact, I don't have to start anything in the first place. I know for a fact that I can only try so hard, and when nothing happens, what is the use, then, of trying until you die? I know that, if there's nothing left to do, there must be something else worth trying, something worth your time, something that will actually give you something. But there is nothing left to try at the moment, and I am left with the one thing that doesn't work, that is frustrating me, that is getting in my nerves, from my right temple down to my neck, from the tips of my fingers to my palm, connecting to my face, in despair, perhaps, in shock.

Four. I reached out to the guy. I don't understand why the guy doesn't want to reach back out. And then I see the guy's thoughts and I discover that the guy hates me, that the guy has removed me from an important list, and I thought, why try when nothing happens anyway? There are more things that are worth my attention, and more things that will give back, and I will stick with them. The guy lost me.

Five. Is it wrong to feel that you don't like me? You won't think what they think if you tried. I am the one who's supposed to think you hate me before I hate you. I am not the bad guy. It's so funny how misanthropic you are. You never talked to me. And then you expect me to do something? Okay, so the argument is flawed, and yes, you tried. And I accepted. And then you stopped. Just like that. Why, because I was angry at you? Is it wrong to openly wonder why that was the case before you reached out? When you reached out, I took it. And I, I was going to take it back. But you took it back first, and now you're puzzled why I hate you?

Six. I don't like match sticks. I don't really know how to use them. I'm scared of being burned, even if it's for a short time, and even if it's just my fingers, as long as the temperature is high, it's not recommended. The same way, I don't like lighters. I don't know how to start a fire unless it's from a distance, so I don't really have an experience with starting fires. Well, except if I have a long stick, which I don't have. More often than not someone else starts the fire for me, and I just work with it, and it will burn me, and I will be angry at that someone else who started the fire. All of my burn marks, it's because someone else started the fire and aimed it at me.

November's still a week away, and already I'm one-thirds through that David Sedaris book that I picked up a couple of months ago. I did say I won't open that until a couple of weeks from now, when I'm on a three-hour flight to Singapore, bored with inflight entertainment. Then again, that's pretty unlikely. In the case that it happens, I have another book to read.

I mentioned this before, I know. I picked up David's latest book because I remember him from what Lizette told me that one time. I figure I took it as a compliment, which is why it's stuck in my head. She says we share the same writing style - and of course, it's a compliment, because he's a bestselling author! I agreed after a few weeks, when she sent me a clandestine copy of one of his earlier books, and I realized that we have the same approach when it comes to words, but definitely not with the perspective we share. And then I started downloading the This American Life podcasts and I heard some of his contributions, and I laughed, and I told myself I'll buy one of his books when I chance upon it. It still amounted to an impulse buy, though.

After a handful of essays from When You Are Engulfed in Flames, I don't regret anything. The critics were right: you do come off as smarter, somehow. And yet you pore through the paragraphs and you still marvel at how effortlessly he does it: a flutter through different topics, much like The Simpsons to an extent, and yet it all boils down to that one thing, and you don't realize it until the very end, when you start thinking about what you'd read and, when you think you've figured it out, you believe you're smarter. All throughout, you're laughing despite the situation being absolutely absurd, or despicable. He's got your attention.

I thought, "we can't share the same writing style."

Maybe we do, but we have pretty much nothing in common. The stuff he writes about are interesting: experiences here, experiences there, skewed outlook, you get a book, you get thousands of people to buy it and read it and think you're the greatest. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but people return because you have interesting things to tell, and even if it's something you usually (absolutely) don't want to deal with, you still do. Me? All I do - and I know that's all I do - is complain.

As much as I think that my writing's getting better, I think my writing's getting angrier, and you all know nobody wants an angry someone blasting angry stuff down their senses. There's a reason why liberals make fun of Glenn Beck, after all. Well, initially it will make sense, but in the long run it gets ridiculous and tiring and unbearable. "Kasi naman, Niko, ligawan mo na kasi si Neobie, hindi yung nagmumukmok ka lang diyan kasi ayaw niya sa'yo." And then they get flustered with the same old, and then they go.

If, for some reason, I decide to pursue a career as a writer for magazines, then I have absolute no hope where I'm headed. People do not read essays that's mostly a complaint about how crappy life has been lately. Editors do not accept essays that's mostly a complaint about how hard it is to be published. What the masses want is something that either makes sense, or is easy to take, which is why there are more fashion magazines in the shelves, or ones that carry essays about people who became successful because they did not pursue a writing career, instead crunching numbers or kissing ass. Nobody wants cynicism on their bedside, more so in their heads. I would've studied at Gokongwei instead of Miguel if I only knew that's how things go. Or maybe stayed at Miguel, but rather than holding a camera and running around, I'd probably be reading books on politics, which would've led me to the same route anyway.

So much for telling Ning and Valerie - or being told, I can't recall - that my cynicism is what makes my writing supposedly great. In Valerie's words, "awesomesauce". But it certainly won't stack up to the people who get sold in actual bookstores, who get actual praise from actual literary critics, and who get to sit back and just be happy with where they are, even if there's really nothing to be happy about. It's impossible, me getting published, or me getting, I don't know, recognized further. Or anybody being happy, for that matter. No wonder sugar is so important.

As with many of my other blog entries, I know I shouldn't be writing this. Or, at the very least, I shouldn't be writing this here. Maybe elsewhere more secure, although we all know secrets no longer exist.

There was this girl. I didn't know how, or why, I was following her on Twitter, but then I realized that I had her email address and inadvertently followed her when I did an email search. She was a classmate of mine. You know how I somehow end up representing the class in things, when teachers ask for someone to do things for everyone. I never really intended to follow her because we didn't really know each other. I had closer friends in that class.

Well, fine, I stuck with it. I reply to her tweets and she replies to mine. She'd see my frustrated one-liners and she's answer. I'd see her frustrated one-liners and I'd answer. You know, friendly replies to tweets. All along, I tried very hard to remember her face, but I couldn't. I remember the name, though. I remember adding her up on YM back in class, because I thought I'd send them urgent messages through that. Could be because there were many people in that class, could be because she's from a lower batch, could be because something else was distracting me.

And then she didn't respond to my responses, and I didn't mind.

I mean, we don't really know each other, and there are things you do not expect others to do just because it happened before. I just saw her tweets, and she probably saw mine, and nothing happened. It went on for months. I didn't mind.

Today, that streak was broken. It's my fault. I can't really resist responding to a Glee-related tweet, partly because I do it for work, but mostly because it makes me look a little bit more cool. She said she was new to the show, and she decided to join in because everybody else around her was raving about it, the same way many of the people around me are, regardless of whether I introduced them or not. So I posted a response, telling her of the two-week break the show took in the United States, so she has enough time to watch all eight episodes before getting up to speed with the ninth. I got a direct message in response.

"Hey," she said. "So sorry that I can't follow you or reply to your tweets. My boyfriend gets jealous. So sorry! Hope you understand."

Well, I actually do, so I decided to send her a message back, saying that I do understand. But Twitter says I can't send her the message anymore. She has unfollowed me.

But at least she told me she's unfollowing me, unlike some of my friends. Supposedly my friends.