Thank God for Friends.

I don’t think I have ever properly appreciated my friends. My friends do the wonderful job of looking after me when they know that I don’t do it too well for myself.

There are my AKB Sisters –who, like fairy godmothers- tsk tsk at me disapprovingly and discuss among themselves my most recent foolishness in Yahoo Conference as if I’m not there myself, and scold me in unison and all caps. In high school, they used to pool their bodies together to hide me from the annoying guy who has a crush on me shall he happen by to look for me. If they’ll get off earlier, they’ll oblige our guy friends to take me home and ensure my safety before the guy friends are allowed to go home themselves. One of them –Roxanne– just recently went out of her way to call long distance from another country to very sweetly rebuke me for my current reckless acts of youth and even instructed our other friends to pick me up everyday from work just to ensure that I do not get hurt. Yes, they protect my emotions.

Then there’s my Saturday Club –combined group of friends from my Journalism class in college consisting mainly of Philippine Gay Association, Mano Po, and my own clan the Fox Group. There’s P.I.C. [Partner In Crime] who treats me out to expensive dinner and desserts to reward me every time I make a decision that’s bordering on the intelligent and veering towards the direction of Getting Myself Treated Properly. As she knows that “freebies” are the way to my heart, she also always feed me every time I’m down in the dumps. There’s hyperactive Bogart who –even though I’ve pissed to the point of threatening me not to show my face to her lest I wanna be seriously wounded, and who crowned me as the person responsible for getting her at her angriest level yet­– still tells me she’ll pray for me when she sees I’m in a fix, and bullies me to make the right decisions and tells me that she doesn’t want me ruining my life, and that she cares for me and doesn’t want me to get wayward.

There’s also my Office Pals. Docile, sweet-faced Mon2 who fiercely [well she tries!] intimidates men into taking care of me and taking me home or else; Nykko who uses surprisingly good metaphors to get through my thick skull; and Yaya who brings me kakanin pasalubongs, carries my laptop bag [when in a good mood], and can be ordered to turn on the lights, bend under the table and unplug my cellphone charger, fetch me from home, take me home and do cartwheels for me when I’m bored.

And because they love me and I love them, I will try to be Better to myself. Enough of the Sado-Masochism tendencies. I will also try to lessen my B.S. Tolerance levels.