Vice vice baby

I was thirteen when I had my first cigarette. My mostly male barkada offered me a stick of Marlboro Reds one day after a cheering practice. It was a cold October day, semestral break, and there were no teachers or adults around anymore as they have already gone home.

I coughed out my first puff, braving a lungful of poisonous gas (of course back then I didn't know I was inhaling something akin to those smoke coming out of cars' tambutchos) for the sake of belonging and coolness. After that we'd cut boring Social Studies and hide out at the hanging bridge near St. Therese going to Pili Drive, lighting up stick after stick of forbidden ciggies.

Then I graduated to liqour, my first being a bottle of Red Horse at Issa's (which later became Gallery and is now Mer-Nel's Resto). I survived it by sleeping off the urge to puke my lunch out. After that, everything goes. There's the obligatory gin-pomelo popular to high school kids on a tight budget and the occasional rhum punch at Issa's when a generous classmate would treat us. Through the years I would rendezvous with Grandma, Generous, Empraning, and on celebration mode, Mr. Cuervo, Chivas and all those fancy, pretentious, overpriced drinks at fancy, pretentious overhyped bars.

But one thing I swore off for life would be the detestable, unforgettable green-apple-flavored lambanog. Those who attended our high school grad party can attest to the evil, evil effects of this foul-tasting concoction!

In college, classmates who would shuffle into class 15 minutes into the lecture - with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and a goofy smile - intrigued me. They always seemed so giddy, laughing at the slightest flutter of a leaf or something. That's when I learned about "burning" - dubi, jutes, hash, maryjane, the other nicknames ecape me now - as the most common choice of recreational drug foir a college kid on an erratic allowance. Apparently, most believe since it's organic (hey cancer patients use them too!), it's not addictive, ergo they're not addicts. To each his own, I say, or something to that effect.

Thankfully, for this one curious cat, curiosity didn't kill me, just made me puke my lunch all over my sisses' apartment (Hapi House where are you now?), laugh hysterically for about ten minutes straight, then pass out for one of the drug's famous "trips." In my case, tulog trip lang.

Then I started working, and after being "randomly chosen" for those mandatory drug tests, I guess curiosity is not a good enough reason to get fired. (Random? Hah! Naisip lang siguro nila, uy tignan nyo yung payatot na yun, laging hyper sa floor, bka nag-a-adik yun, i-test natin!)

Some time later, I realized that risking more wrinkles and fine lines around my lips, blotchy dried skin, ashtray breath and coughing like a dying dog all the time is not worth the price for looking "cool" while puffing on one of them cancer sticks. I guess the cool factor comes from all those commercials where smoking makes you look like you could lasso horses effortlessly or that you could have a convertible and a gorgeous guy with just a snap of your fingers.

Then it dawned on me that everyone smokes, even those kanto boys and jeepney barkers and aleng tinderas at the wet market. So while I'm not passing judgement on smokers and I would still occasionally light up (I think I would rather die of cancer from my own cig that from your second-hand smoke, thank you very much), I guess smoking isn't really for me. Just don't smoke near me when I had just taken a bath or inside a cramped public utility vehicle because I would shove that stick down your throat... may sindi pa.

I still enjoy a drink every now and then, but the prospect of going to the washroom after every couple gulps of beer, or nursing a pounding headache from that wengweng the previous night wisely makes me think twice about going on another alcohol binge. Plus, I get really tactless and madaldal when I'm drunk so I would rather not add another embarrassing spectacle to the Stupid Incidents files.I swore off drugs, almost quit smoking and considerably cut down on alcohol.

The only vice I have left is one I really, truly can't live without. I have had this addiction for about six, seven years now, ever since I started having less and less of it. When I don't get enough of it, I get cranky, short-tempered and oh-so-bitchy. When I just had it, don't even think about talking to me. I become so moody my teammates have learned to keep a wide berth from me for the first two hours of taking calls. When I miss getting this, I have withdrawal symptoms, hallucinating, stamping my feet in frustration or just plain crying. It doesn't matter where I am or what time of the day it is. When I want it I gotta have it! I've taken it almost everywhere: in buses, jeepneys, on my seat in the middle of a call, on the lounge's floor, in the toilet cubicle, at a crowded noisy bar, once or twice even at church and while driving.

I'm a sleep addict.