Drained

It seems weird to admit that I'm feeling drained. After working for 6 straight days for a month, I cant help but admit that I needed a break. I needed to go somewhere fresh and green. Maybe a secluded garden or on top of a mountain. 

Looking back, I never had this kind of feeling before. I used to have activities 7 days a week including church activities, school activities and some outreach activities. Still think I can do it. I don't admit that I'm getting older, there's still a lot of things I wanted to see, hear, touch and experience. I'm not that old.

Maybe it's because things have become somewhat a routine. Sure the kids are act different each day, but still you have that feeling of going to work at 8 am or 9am, take a lunch break at around 11 or 12 noon and end by 5pm. It has become that kind of a routine for some years or months now. Whereas in college, schedules shift after 3 months or so and each day is a new lesson or a new experience. 

I hope I could have a change in routine. Maybe an earlier time out? Maybe a different day off? Or maybe a career in the academe? There's so many possibilities but it seems hard to find which path to take. I'll just leave it to God to tell me where to go. As of the moment, I guess there are lessons that I must learn.

Ode to Light

I'm experiencing a inevitable setback for a few weeks now.

I bought a few books this week to replenish my already dwindling reading list. I was about to start reading one of these books when suddenly someone took my picture. I knew someone did, there was a flash of light. One thought hit me: I HAVE STALKERS IN MY ROOM!!!

Then, it happened again, a flash of light. Then again, and again. Now I felt like my room turned into a dance floor with the flashing lights. These couldn't be stalkers unless they have ultra super fast but super small SLR cameras, which would be very impossible.

The culprit was none other than my reading light. I closed my book and went to sleep. Tomorrow I'll try to find out what's wrong with my light.

That was two weeks ago. My bedroom light had a busted florescent lamp - a 15 Watt lamp. It's still broken. 

When I asked my brother to buy a replacement lamp, he found out that they didn't sell any of those any more. They never ordered one of those for a long time. How convenient! Did I also mention that he tried all of the hardware stores in our vicinity (J.P. Rizal Street in Makati has more or less 10 hardware stores).

What's frustrating is that I could understand why. I received this bedroom reading lamp when I was still in high school. My parents discovered that I was slowly occupying the whole bookshelf with my own books and I was about to exhaust all the books in our school library, so they gave me a reading lamp they won from some promo. I couldn't remember the details. It was that long ago. All I know was that my complaint then was that staying on the lower deck of a double decker, you don't get enough light to read anything.

For the record, the lamp has been replaced less than 5 times in span of almost 9 years. It's that economical. I have used it to read more than a hundred books and has been a great help when I was writing those long articles we used to submit before our journalist teacher. It has seen a lot of action. In fact, it has the battle scars to prove it. It has a busted outlet where I used to plug in my charger. How it got busted was long forgotten.

I like that lamp. I hope to find a replacement lamp or I won't be able to read any book, which is really scary.

Mad Mom's Day

I remember a story about a man who asked God to give him things. However, instead of the things that he needed, God gave him something different. It was like instead of patience, he got trials, he asked for perseverance he got something else. Anything he asked for, he got something different. Though the story may sound frustrating on the human's point of view, the point of the story is that God gives us something to build up our character. I love the concept.

Something of the sort happened to me today. But it was not lovable. It was frustrating.

As far as I can remember, this is the first time I treated mama and papa out on a mother's day.

Who said it can't be a mother AND father's day? Oh, my brother was also there. So who said it couldn't be a mother's AND father's AND brother's day?

Who cares anyway?

So I treated them to a restaurant of their own choosing. rather, it was by brother's choosing. It was a great pizza restaurant. Great for breaking down a potential happy moment.

We ordered for a thick crust pizza, we got a thin crust instead. Not only was it thin crust, it was also too small for our large appetite. When we asked if we could get the pizza changed or add another pizza, the waiter said, "I'm sorry sir, pero patay na po yung oven namin." (We already turned off our oven.)

Since we don't eat pork, we asked that it be removed from their pasta. Minutes later, we were told that they cannot do it, so we cancelled and asked for something else. We ordered chicken instead, we thought it was over. Minutes later, they told us the exact words they told us about the pizza. Their oven was already off.

Everything was off and unavailable.

We were left with no choice but to dine with a small thin crust pizza and a basket of potatoes.

It was really disappointing considering that the restaurant was a favorite when I was younger.

All we could hear were apologies from their crew. 

We had no choice but to eat, we were already hungry and we'd take it anyway. But for sure, we won't go back to that restaurant. 

the wheels on the bus

I have been singing a song for more than a year now. Actually, it was more than two years now or maybe more. I sang it thousands of times to notice that it comes to me automatically.

If you’re a teacher, you might be familiar with it. If you’re a pre-school teacher, chances are you’ve mastered it. But if you’re a therapist like me, you might have the equivalent of a Ph.D. in knowing this song.

Read more

Breaking the Ghost Within

In a few hours time, the axe will fall.

I shudder at the thought of getting executed.

I received the call of my execution two days ago – Monday. No wonder Garfield hated Mondays. I tried to delay the inevitable. I responded a day later. I had no choice but to walk the plank and have a taste of death.

I didn’t know what happened next. Everything seemed blurry. These last few hours mark my return to consciousness. In those spare moments I reflect about various things. I think about how people have been awfully good to me – more awful than good though. I imagine the feeling of those who had their near death experiences – something I doubted until minutes ago. Most of them saw their life pass by like a blur. Every single laugh they shared with their family and friends – those moments that took their breath away. Should I live to see the day again, I’ll tell the tale of going to face death all by myself.

I reflect on how life should end in such a manner – in front of a group of people, questioning you, squeezing out the life from you. I shudder to think about it.

In a few hours time, the guns will fire.

Dr. Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Gregorio del Pilar Antonio Luna –  all Filipinos who died facing that barrel along with the millions of soldiers who took part in the war – any kind of war. I should be saying about how pointless wars are or how deception among ranks could lead to wasted lives. Yet that would be increasing their fame and putting all those who died – stupidly or otherwise – on top of a high pedestal for all to revere, admire and follow. Not that I mind at all.

I particularly liked the perspective that the dead remain dead. It’s comforting to know that those ghosts and spirits that haunt many places here on earth are not spirits of the dead but something else more evil and ghastly. Imagine seeing the spirit of your dead relative hanging all over the place. I shudder at the thought.

I wonder who injected those concepts into the minds of people. I tried telling a ghost story once, my listeners ended up laughing their hearts out. They all thought it was a joke. I also remembered submitting one story in our high school paper about my scariest moment, I told it as vividly as I can. All I remembered after passing the article was the vivid color of ink on paper inside the trash can. That was when I learned that ghost stories are like jokes in that they are hard to make.

Harder still if you’re the one to tell people of their ghosts in life. You’d end up dead just by breaking the truth to them. We would have fared better not knowing those things.

I only have a few hours left until that panel of people would question me to death. I would have breathed easier if they were asking things like “who’s your crush?” or “were you the one who left the cookie jar open?” or “Did you just eat bagoong this breakfast?”  and not “What’s wrong with this kid?” or “what are we going to do with him?”

Right now I imagine the scenario, I come inside their hall or wherever it is they’re going to put me. And grill me with a lot of questions. The ghost would eventually appear:

Social Worker: So, what do you think? Will the child be able to speak?

I swallowed everything in. Spitting it out would be the hardest.

Me: Well, considering the circumstances of age, cognitive ability and functionality, the child is already a teenager – as you can see. He is able to discern things that his visual and auditory sensations would feed him. His processing may seem to be moderately limited to what is necessarily available…

That’s just a social worker. Imagine if it was a parent. It’s really harder if it was a parent. It always is.

So now, I sympathize with the doctors, nurses and all the other health professionals whose lives are always in complete danger from the patients that they handle. Danger from the patients denial issues, anger issues and depression issues erupting from their ghosts in life.



Simultaneously posted @ manacled.wordpress.com

NFS MAKATI

I couldn't believe that I could still be alive to write this post. No kidding. A few minutes ago before settling myself in front of the computer, I have seen the streets of Makati turn into a racing circuit. The rush could have been exhilarating had it not been for the commuters and regular vehicles that were nearly razed by the jeepney I rode today.

I was on my way home from work. I was asked to stop by from a nearby mall. It took me until closing time to get everything I needed to buy plus other items that I found (mostly food). I took the usual MRT to the jeepney terminal that goes straight to our street. It took a while to fill the jeepney. I dozed off for a while. When I woke up to move for some passengers, I kept on hearing the driver ranting about something. Apparently, he seemed to rant the rest of the trip about trifles like asking the passengers to move over.

When the driver revved up his engine, I noticed that he seemed to enjoy the brusque way it made a noise. I guess he was ignorant of the fact that this was manila and it was pointless to rev up your engines that loud.

As expected he turned up his sounds to the extreme before cruising away towards hell. His sounds, still as expected, were heavy metal sounds or rap mixes reminiscent of need for speed - not. I didn't know whether to laugh or to smirk at his unusual taste. They were somewhat weird - soundlike homemade novelty crossed between kundiman and dance hits. I really have no idea where to put his genre, but it sure was not for racing around a race track. It would have really been better if they were the novelty songs frequently repeated on the radio. Apparently, his music from his mp3 player were only hits whenever you got to drunk or to stoned to notice. It was a real bummer my MP4 player ran out of juice. I would have plugged in my headset to block out his weird music.

As the music started, the dreadful began. I'm sure this man was crazy.  He was oblivious to the double parked cars and what not that made the jeepney a perfect fit on the road. As he turned towards the main road, curse after curse followed every vehicle that passed the intersection. Every moment or so, the driver would rev up his engines as if gassing up for another lap.

I wanted to blurt out "Manong! Ayaw pa naming mamatay!!!" but I thought better of it. My voice would either be drowned out by his music or by his engine. Whenever a passenger would ask him to pull over, they would instantly find themselves a two blocks from where they intended to go. The driver was too busy cursing and swerving and overtaking slow moving vehicles to notice that he had passengers who were holding on for dear life. Maybe, he was even busy tapping or humming to the tune of his his homemade hits.

Another thought that occured to me would be to go down the moment another passenger asked him to pull over, but the stops were so abrupt that vehicles behind us nearly collided with the jeepney. I would still be a goner once I tried to get out.  Maybe this driver was thinking that the horns and honks behind him were from fans who were cheering him on his race to death.

A few minutes later (he probably reduced the 20-30 minute drive from the MRT to 15 minutes), I noticed that he was nearing the sidewalk. There, I immediately shouted for him to pull over. It only took one shout, but the stop was abrupt it nearly threw me into the lady sitting beside me (I should have thrown myself sooner though, she was hot!!  ). I guess I was lucky. The area was exactly my stop. The moment I got out, he zoomed away towards the intersection. I think he nearly slammed into a taxi, but I hope not.

MORAL: Never drive like an NFS driver when you're in Makati. Not that it's not safe, its just plain stupid!

My First Signed Book

I'm not actually that person who would line up to get a book or anything signed by the artist behind it. In fact, I see it pointless to have a signature on a book that I would shelf after reading. Some may say it offers prestige and increases the value of the book, I still find that my interest in the book would eventually diminish as time goes on.

Yet last Sunday, someone gave me his book and signed it and I wouldn't mind shouting it out loud in the world.

I actually dreaded the coming of Sunday. I scheduled an evaluation session for an adult patient. With the way his family contacted me, it gave the impression that they were stern and hard to please. So with a heavy heart, I went up to the steps to the rehab department of MAMC and hoped that at the end of the day, this would all be over.

Then the patient came. I expected someone with a grudge on the world who would snap at anyone coming near him. Most of the adult patients I have experienced before were like that. It turned out that I was wrong. I met a ray of sunshine outside that sitting room. I saw him sit there beside a young woman who turned out to be someone he did not know. Who would do that aside from some missionaries I know? Who would blatantly talk and introduce himself to a woman he does not even know and even give her a book with his autograph?

I felt a slight pressure with the way he approached the woman and gave her the his book. It's either this man was a missionary or some celebrity with a strict family. Apparently, I was right on both counts. He lived the life of following God's mission since he met Him. At the same time, he appeared to be almost a household name among old Seventh-day Adventists families. I was too honored to be with him and probably this is what God wants me to do.

The session began with a lot of laughs from the old guy. He was so enthusiastic and so eager to tell of his life story to everyone he meets. He was the epitome of faith as he ascribes every praise I gave "up there." Although I could not get his words, his gesture of pointing upwards with that thankful look was enough to tell me that he kept a steady faith in God.

I guess it was his ministry to meet all people and share his book. It is this ministry that prompted me to write this post. I stood firmly on the belief that every patient I met is confidential, but I guess if the patient leaves a trace of his life to everyone (no exceptions) he meets, mentioning and writing about him seems like helping him leave his legacy to the world. I also think that as long as I don't mention his name or his condition, it would be alright to share this piece of experience.

So as the session went on, he laughed heartily for most of the session. He smiled at every praise that I gave and kept on pointing up ward with an accompanied unintelligible utterance which sounded a lot like "praise God." It was amazing to see someone so happy amidst turmoil.

At the end of the session, I was not surprised when he didn't immediately stood up and left. He beckoned his daughter to bring out a soft bound book and started to write on the front page. His hands were unsteady but he was able to make his writing clear and legible. He wrote my name, and John 3:16 and then tried to scrawl his signature on the page.

Afterwards, he gently took my hand as well as his daughter's and started to pray. Anyone overhearing his words would never understand a single word he said in his prayer. Even I had a hard time understanding it, but does it really matter? God reads the hearts not the words, doesn't He?

That was how I got my first and probably most treasured signature on a book. A man who seemed demented and bent with age yet still had the vigor and the enthusiasm to reach out to all people. As I flipped through the book and scanned its pages, I knew then how he came out to be this way, he was just living the Old time religion that he has been living out since he met Jesus. I hope we could all be inspired by his story.

A Ship Called Doulos

There was once an announcement of the return of one of the famous vessels to sail the waters of the world. They call themselves the floating United Nations for you could clearly see the representation from each continent. It was a wonderful sight, giving you hope for the possibility of Utopia, if certain things were met.

Enough of the philosophical introspection, just to keep it straight, I'm talking about MV Doulos. More than five years ago, I was a giddy student who wanted to visit that ship. An avid book collector, I was not one who would let go of the prospect of going to a floating bookstore. In fact, I really don't mind if it were a floating, flying, running, bouncing or even digging bookstore. As long as it has books of good value, expect me to be there.

Two years ago, my wish was fulfilled twice. I was able to visit the floating bookstore twice in a week and was able to buy a great volume. But being a common warm blooded sinful human, you get to ask for more.

So there I was again. I stepped on the planks of MV Doulos yet again for another trip to dreamy land. To those who have not yet been there, the bookstore is no ordinary bookstore. It contains precious volumes of inspirational material enough to have you rationalizing for a whole century. Its vast stores of books range from children's coloring and activity books to self-help books to references to inspirational and religious books including Bibles. But those who are not really into books are not forgotten, music with labels ranging from Hillsong to Sixpence non the richer, bags of different styles and colors, and souvenirs and other paraphernalia were sold as well. (Take note: I was not paid to advertise the bookstore, OK?)

So we went there. There was me, my sister and my cousin. Amidst the bustling crowd most of which were there for the heck of it and not for the books, we squeezed in and out of every bookshelf checking on some of the volumes. I, for one, checked, rejected, enjoyed, dreamed and drooled at some of the volumes that I could see there. It was some sort of a haven for the knowledge seekers and book lovers.


The ship is docked at pier 13 behind the Manila Hotel and will be there until the end of the month and if you happen to see me there, don't just holler, buy me a book for a change cause chances are my head is already in a book and I don't want to go out.
 

Making Lives Count For Something

Two boys rushed passed me towards the vacant lot where we were setting up some chairs. They kept on running around. Later on, they were siting on the chairs we have prepared while still pulling pranks at each other. One would stand and pretend to fall down on the floor and pretend that it had been the other child's fault. Of course, a scuffle would start and they would fight until someone intervenes or one of them starts to cry.

Had they been patients in our clinic under my watch, I would have chased them around. Yet they weren't. In fact, they were miscreants from one of the yet to be demolished slums in Manila. Most of them were filthy and smelled of sweat, dirt, and something else. One even had something on his hair that I dare not identify not even where he had been playing before coming here.

Had it been someone else, say some wise-ass-social climbing maniac, they would definitely faint or even run away either from the stench or from the unruly kids. I had been used to that since childhood. I had some classmates from prep school before and had the experience of talking to them since high school and college. So their smell or even their looks would be normal to me. Besides, I saw no difference between them and the kids that I handle in private clinics. They both had great need to be understood.

That was why I was there together with the members from our Wednesday small group. There were seven of us that day. Two guys, including me, and the rest were women. We brought the kids snacks, some activities, and a bunch of chairs for them to sit on. We were armed with only our voices, our hearts and our prayers. It was a ministry we took over from a hard working couple who roam around the vicinity of Pasay-Manila and spread God's love to these kids. It is what we called a Branch Sabbath School.

If there was one word to describe this kids, it was chaos. We tried to break up fights, force them to stand and even try to get them to sit down. My friends tried everything, even bribing them with gifts and prizes, but they seem to have understood that everyone get food afterward anyway. So their ramblings and fighting ensued.

That was how we started the program. Some of them refusing to stand up, some of them fighting amongst each other, some were crying. It was utter chaos. No one could pacify these bunch of rowdy kids. We even thought of leaving, but that would mean admitting defeat. So we went ahead with the program.

What struck me most was not their ramblings, it was their silence. We finally made them to silence even for just a few precious minutes. And I would believe that it was not really me. Although I was the one who stood in front of them at that time, I believe it was the story that hushed up their mouths. The story was a Gospel classic: Jesus feeding the multitude.

I saw their faces hungry for the word of God. Not one kid spoke a word. Not one tried to run away or play around. All eyes were on me as I told them the story. All of them were in complete attention. Their eyes were bright with wonder as the story progressed. For a moment there I felt that relating that simple story to them made my life count for something.

Just the morning before that, I heard our elder preach that to make your life more meaningful, count your days. Maybe this is what counting your days mean. Counting your days working for the most High and seeing the precious faces of young souls famished for a story or even a comforting word from God. It is seeing how truly blessed we can all be who can afford the Bibles, and the Devotional Books to be inspired and look at life a tad more differently than these kids who would have to wait for someone to tell them about the good news from God.

It is their need, unruly and carefree as they are, and it is our duty to teach them. We who are able bodied, and can read, we who may be out of jobs but can see through the God behind all misfortunes, we are all accountable in God's sight.

So if you seem to find your life meaningless and short, just try to see to the spiritual needs of these children, something they would forget the world around them for.

More on making lives count visit:
http://manacled.wordpress.com/2009/02/22/numbering-our-days/

Kwentong Salagubang

Sa puntong ito, marami akong nais matapos na mga isusulat na mas importante pero hindi ko talaga mapigilan ang sarili na isiwalat ang pangyayaring ito na naganap kamakailan lang. Sa katunayan ilang minuto lang ang nakalipas nang maganap ito.

Ilang buwan na ang lumipas nang nagulo ang aming pananahimik sa bahay nang may marinig kaming biglang humampas sa florescent lamp ng aming bahay. Hindi ko na maalala kung ano ang ginagawa ko ng mga oras na iyon pero nabulahaw ako sa munting tunog na iyon.

Tonk.

Maya maya ay naghiyawan ang mga kapatid ko at nagtatakbo papunta sa kanilang kwarto. Nagulat ako nang makita ko sa kisame ang isang lilipad-lipad na salagubang na naligaw sa aming tahanan. Habang kumakaripas sa pagtakbo ang aking mga kapatid, lumiwanag naman ang aking mga mata sa galak. Minsan ka lang makakakita ng salagubang sa kalagitnaan ng Makati.

Naalala ko, dati rati ay nanghuhuli kami nito ng aking mga pinsan sa Bulacan. Nilalagyan ng sinulid sa katawan at pinapalipad na tila mga itim na saranggola na mababa ang lipat. Kaya namangha ako nang makita ang salagubang na iyon.

Sa puntong iyon, ako na lamang ang naiwan sa silid. Lahat ng kasamahan ko ay nasa kabilang silid, nakasilip sa pinto at nagmamakaawa na paalisin ko ang munting insekto. Imbes na paalisin ay hinuli ko ito at inilagay sa garapon at pinangarap na alagaan. Nagpupumiglas ito nang aking hawakan ng dalawang daliri.

Ilang linggo ang nakalipas ay napasin kong nanghihina ang kulisap na gustong alagaan. Hindi siya kumakain ng mga dahon na sa isip ko ay kanyang kinakain upang mabuhay dito sa lungsod. Ngunit napansin ko ang kanyang matamlay na pangagatawan. Kaya naisipan kong pakawalan na lamang ito. Ayokong mamatay dahil sa aking kalayawan ang isang kakaibang kulisap na minsan mo lamang makikita sa lungsod. Kaya kahit nanghihna ay pilit ko siyang pinakapit sa puno ng duhat na matatagpuan sa likod ng aming bahay.

Matapos nun ay hindi ko na naisip pa ang munting salagubang. Kung nabuhay man siya o hindi ay hindi ko na alam. Ngunit bumalik siya sa aking isipan dahil sa mga nangyari kanina.

Ipinagpaliban ko saglit ang pagsusulat para usisain ang batang umakyat sa amin. Anak yun ng aming kapitbahay na madalas magpalipas ng oras sa bahay upang makipaglaro sa amin. Dalawang taon pa lang siya.

Ikinukwento (Take note, ikinukwento in full detail! Ngayon lang ako nakakita ng ganito ka normal na bata! ) niya sa mga kapatid ko ang nangyari sa kanya kanina. Naroon ako para manggulo sa kanya.

Nasa kalagitnaan siya ng pag-iisip (ang gulo ko kasi talaga), nang biglang sumigaw (actually, tumili) ang kapatid kong si Barry.

"Eeeek! Salagubang!" Sabay damba sa akin. Sumunod naman ang dalawa kong kapatid na babae. Sa kaguluhan, nakatunganga lang kami ni Angel (yung bata). Pero kita sa mata ng bata na nagulat siya. Sinubukan kong hampasin ng librong malapit lang ang salagubang upang mapunta ito sa kabilang dako ng kwarto. Kung hindi ko ginawa yun baka nadaganan ng tatlong kapatid ko ang batang nakatulala. Biglang naglabasan ang tatlo kong kapatid sabay dala sa batang hindi malaman kung anong nangyayari.

Tinamaan ko siguro yung salagubang pero hindi ko na napansin kung saan. Muntik na kasi ako mahulog sa pagkakaupo nang dumaan palabas yung tatlo.

Habang hinahanap yung salagubang, narinig ko yung bata. "Si tuya bill (barry), duwag! Ako nadulat lang!" (Takte, bakit ang dami mong kayang sabihin?)

Nahuli ko yung insekto. Tinamaan ko nga. Mukhang tuliro eh. Kinausap ko pero hindi sumasagot.

Ipinakita ko sa bata. "Hulihin mo." Sabi ko. Iniabot ko sa kanya ang plastic na garapon. Pero ayaw niyang hawakan yung salagubang. So ako ang dumampot at inilagay sa garapon.

"Gusto mo ipakita kay kuya AJ?" Tanong ko. Nabatid ko kasing umiiyak ang nakatatanda niyang pinsan sa kanila bahay.

"Sige!" Ang kanyang tugon. "Takutin muna natin si tuya billy!" Sabay abot ng bote sa kapatid ko na mukhang hiyang hiya sa kanyang pagtili.

Dinala ko yung salagubang kasama ng bata sa kanilang bahay. Ipinakita niya sa kanyang mga magulang tapos ay kay kuya AJ niya. Maya maya ay dalawang bata na ang nasa bahay namin.

Nilagyan ko ng sinulid yung kulisap katulad ng ginagawa namin dati. Tapos ay ipinalipad. Lumipad naman ang kumag. Hindi niya batid ang kahibangan ng higanteng tao na may hawak sa kanyang sinulid. Konting hila ko lang ay baka katapusan na ng kanyang miserableng buhay.

Natuwa ang mga bata. Pero ako lang ang humahawak ng sinulid. Ayaw nila. Natatakot. Kaya naisipan kong pakawalan na lamang ang salagubang. Naawa nanaman ako. Hindi sapat na kabayaran sa kanyang buhay ang katuwaan ng dalawang paslit na may kakayahang durugin ang kanyang munting katawan anu mang oras nila gustuhin.

Kaya muli ay pinakawalan ko ang salagubang. Ngunit bilang tanda, iniwan ko ang kapirasong sinulid sa kanyang katawan. Naisip ko, baka sakaling iisa ang salagubang na natagpuan namin ngayon sa salagubang na pinakawalan ko limang buwan na ang nakalilipas.

Kung maaalis niya ang markang iyon, bahala na siya. Basta wag na siyang babalik, baka sa susunod ay hindi na ako ang makahuli sa kanya. Kawawang salagubang ka!

WAKAS