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This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.

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Thursday, May 20, 2004

entry arrow7:49 PM | You're in My Friendster List?

Sometimes, I browse over my Friendster list, and I chance upon faces and names that get me asking: "Who the heck are you?" A guy named Ricardo, for instance. Why is he my "friend"? I look at his photos, and I have no recollection of him, at all -- nothing, nada. Just an uncomfortable blank. And he's not even cute, so I guess I could not have invited him. You know, just like you would those beautiful, anonymous faces you invite to make a kind of pretty wallpaper for your Friendster list. Mark, for instance, does not even know 80% of his Friendsters -- most of them strangers begging to be noticed with their pretty faces or perfectly toned physique, and nothing else. He's not even bothered with it. Which is the paradox of Friendster, really. Sometimes, it's not about connecting with friends at all, although that happens. It's also about maintaining cliques, and looking good and getting noticed. In a sense, it has become a kind of sport -- for me, for Mark, and for many others who have made this thing an addiction of sorts: there is an unconscious race to get to the 500 maximum Friendsters finish-line. Why? No one knows why. Which, of course, makes me wonder about the trivialities of the many things we do, which we call "living." Sometimes, I think too much.

But really, I'm just tired, and I need more than a week's rest. Sure, summer school's almost over, but even the prospect of this provides little consolation. I know there are mountains of work waiting to pounce on me even before the regular schoolyear opens June 17. I need sleep. I need a facial. I need boredom. I need a week's break roasting under the sun in Siquijor. I need tons of ice cream sundae. I need space. I need silence. Arrrggh.

{Here, Ian pauses dramatically.}

If you can't tell by now, I'm antsy from the fact that I'm basically offline these days. (What kind of unholy existence is that?) I haven't updated any of my websites, and my email inboxes groan from the sheer volume of unread mail.

See, everytime I click on my dial-up account at home, the computer prompts me with the message: "There is no dial-tone." Of course, I pick up the damn phone, and voila, there is a dial-tone. I've complained to my phone company, who promises to look into the matter "within 72 hours." It's been more than 72 hours. I'm still getting the same message. Tomorrow, I'm visiting my computer shop. Maybe what's malfunctioning is my internal modem.

Then again, my phone's been acting up since the last storm brushed past Dumaguete last week. I get static when people call me. Like a hundred bees competing with the voice of the caller. It makes me dizzy.

All of these is really a roundabout way of telling all of you why I've been so silent for the past days. Yes, sir... no Internet connection at home. Plus I'm tired most of the time, too. And my days are too short.

I've been feeling dead for the past month, it's not even funny anymore.

[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich