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Wide awake at 2:21 am. Waiting for the caffeine boost to wear off.

Got a message from a friend 17 hours ago, reminding me that it’s twelve more days before the annual count of my existence in this planet increments.

Soon to be 27. Not a bad number. Aside from the occasional stumbles and infrequent but lasting emotional shocks, life has been good. No complaints, although I know that the craving for more will never cease. Contrary to common belief that shoves it in the negative category, the years have taught me to embrace this sense of discontent. It keeps life amusing, and gives me a reason crawl out of bed during frosty mornings. Perfection is such a bore.

It’s still the same me, although the package is weathering gradually. It’s still the same soul, daring the world to give it the best it has to offer. It’s still the same spirit, treasure-hunting for questions with answers so elusive.

One thing so unbelievable though…

I am baffled at how many permutations to the question “When will you ever get married?” there are. It’s been popping all over the place recently — ranging from witty, to absurd, to downright intrusive. From close relatives to the Japanese hairstylist at the beauty salon I occasionally visit. It’s the same endless loop, a Justin Timberlake song incarnate (as pleasing as the sound of fingernails scraping on the blackboard). As if the “be all and end all” of my existence solely depends on that “blessed” state.

On a positive note… thank God for people who care. Otherwise, who will even bother to worry over it for me? I don’t and I won’t, not until the right moment comes. Not a second earlier. Not even with a signed petition from a hundred people.

That having been said…

Here’s to my (almost) 27 years of joyriding in this planet. Looking forward to another year of encircling the sun.