How I wish Baguio do the same. Pero kng tatanungin mo bat may mga Pine Trees nanaman na pinuputol para sa bagong condo, hotel, restaurant parking sasabihin sayo"dEnR ApPrOvEd nAmAn"
​
Around 5 PM, habang naghihintay mapuno yung jeep, napansin ko yung batang katabi ko. It wasn't my intention to invade her privacy, but something caught my attention. She was talking to Google AI.
The first thing she typed was, "I survived another school day."
She waited for the response, then typed again.
"It was a hard day. Ang daming assignments at school activities."
Again, she waited patiently, read the reply, and continued the conversation. Nothing unusual at first. Just someone asking questions and reading the answers.
Then she typed, "I'm very tired. Did I do well today?"
She read the response, and smiled. That's when it hit me.
Maybe she wasn't just using AI. Maybe she was looking for someone to listen.
Suddenly, her earlier messages made more sense. Like a proud kid excited to tell someone about her day, she shared little things:
"I also didn't eat during lunch and recess, but I didn't feel hungry."
"I actually have enough money, but I'm saving it."
Those weren't really questions. They were stories. The kind of stories kids usually tell a parent after school, or a friend who's willing to listen.
Nalala ko tuloy nung bata pa ako. I also never really got to share these kinds of things with my mom. She woke up at 4 AM every day to go to the public market and usually came home around 8 PM. She was doing everything she could for us, and I never blamed her for that.
Sure, marami akong kalaro sa labas. Text, pogs, habulan lagi akong may kasama. But when it came to sharing how my day went, what made me happy, or what was bothering me, those conversations with my mom rarely happened.
Maybe that's why this moment stayed with me.
I don't know this little girl's situation, and I don't want to pretend I do. Maybe she has a loving family. Maybe she simply enjoys talking to AI. There's nothing wrong with that.
But I couldn't help wondering, have we become so busy, so distracted, or so out of touch that some kids feel more comfortable sharing the little moments of their day with an AI than with another person?
Maybe the bigger question isn't whether AI is replacing human connection.
Maybe it's whether we're still making enough room for those small conversations that mean everything to a child.
I don't know.
I just hope she has someone in her life who asks her how her day went and actually waits to hear the answer.
P.S. She was typing all of it in english and when she started talking to Google AI about her crush, I stopped reading. That part belonged to her. But seeing her smile made me smile too.
Can someone explain this to me like I'm a filthy Fed shill?
I was told AEW is financially untouchable because Daddy Shad has infinite money and will fund the Dub forever. Every time someone mentions ratings, attendance, or profitability, the answer is "lol, Shad's billions."
But the second Shad Khan's political views donations get brought up, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Tony is his own person. You can't judge him by his father's actions and bussiness dealings."
Is this what Dave meant when he say layered storytelling?
I just want to be updated on the lore uce. Just incase it changes.
I have reached the conclusion that WWE is objectively bad because I am no longer having fun.
Please ignore the fact that I watched all five hours this week, followed the rumors, read every spoiler, and immediately wrote a paragraph explaining why next month's stories won't pay off before they've happened.
Brock's fake retirement? I already know it won't satisfy me.
Sami? Already getting the Kofi treatment. Don't ask me to elaborate, I just feel it.
The women's division? Existing incorrectly.
Trick and Ricky? Mid because I decided they were mid before they debuted.
Overall: 3/10.
Will I be back next week?
Of course. How else am I supposed to find out how much I hate it?
Fed bad. See you Monday.
8 PM and we almost gave up on dinner. Ended up finding one of the best meals we've had in a while.
The plan was to eat at Big Brother, but by the time we got there, dine-in was already closed. No worries we decided to head to Mahi instead. Drove all the way there... only to find out there wasn't a single parking slot available.
At that point someone suggested, "Cafe Siklista?"
We had never been there before, but figured, why not?
We called the number on their Facebook page just to check if they were still open. Luckily, the owner answered. They told us they only had quarter leg inasal, bulalo, and kansi left for the night. We ordered over the phone, said we'd be there in a few minutes, and hoped for the best.
When we arrived, it was obvious they were already in the middle of closing up, but they still welcomed us warmly and led us to a table under a simple pop-up tent. You could tell they had just started preparing our order, so we waited for about 20 minutes.
It was absolutely worth it.
The chicken inasal was juicy, flavorful, and cooked perfectly. The bulalo wasn't your usual bulalo it had a distinct flavor that made it stand out from the ones I've had elsewhere. And the kansi? Easily one of the best I've tried.
What impressed me the most wasn't just the food, though. It was the hospitality. They could've easily told us they were closed, but instead they still accommodated us without making us feel like we were inconveniencing them.
I don't usually make recommendation posts, but this place genuinely deserves one. Great food, great service, and a relaxing ambiance that the photos honestly don't capture very well.
Sometimes the best places are the ones you end up at after all your original plans fall apart.
P.S. Aside from Kopi Mhio, Tambayan by Cafe Siklista has officially become one of my go to recommendations whenever someone asks for hidden food gems in Baguio or La Trinidad.
Unli rice din sila
https://reddit.com/link/1uh6ltv/video/l59wgyatmu9h1/player
Also going to the Cafe is a bit hard as it is nestled in the middle of nowhere in Irisan. You can get in touch with them on how to go to their location by messaging their FB page or calling the number listed on their profile.
Remember when Kazuchika Okada signed with AEW and everyone told us he was finally going to be presented as the global megastar and generational talent he always deserved to be?
Ticket distributed = Sold out
Halos zero visibility na sa daan kaya dahan-dahan lang takbo namin. Buti na lang nakapagpreno agad at may space pang umiwas. Nakakatakot isipin na may mga nag-o-overtake pa rin sa ganitong kondisyon. Granted mabagal ung elf, delikado parin gnawa nung dalawa.
This is the Karate Kid Movie I remember.
Just watched Obsession, and honestly one thing that consistently annoys me when it comes to horror movies is the audience. Every time there's a remotely tense or creepy scene, there are always people checking their phones so they don't have to look at the screen, talking to their seatmates to distract themselves, or screaming at the slightest thing like their life depends on it.
​
If it's a Conjuring movie, sure, I get it. Those films are built around scares and jump scares. But Obsession is nowhere near that kind of horror movie. It's much more psychological and atmospheric than outright scary.
​
What really gets me is hearing some of the same people say afterward, "Di ko gets yung ending." Well, no wonder. You spent half the movie looking at your phone and the other half talking through scenes that were actually important. Hayop ka. 😂
The 6 hours peace I get on my days off building gunplas is what i always look forward to this rainy season. Nakaka relax sa totoo lng. Antagal ng November for our next camping after the rainy season.
Still one of the best movies in Netflix. Sayang tlga acting career ni Baron.
The rainy days is here, and what better way to kick it off than with a challenge that’s good for your body, mind, and our community? This June, we’re inviting everyone to join our Walking Challenge, a chance to move more, connect with others, and start the year with positivity and purpose!
Why Join?
1.Personal Growth: Walking is a simple step toward feeling better and stronger every day.
2.Community Fun: Share your progress, swap tips, picutres and cheer each other on, it’s more fun when we do it together!
3.Start the Year Right: Together, let’s create a supportive and uplifting vibe for 2025.
What Makes It Special?
This isn’t just about steps, it’s about community and fun! Share stories about your walks, post scenic photos, or even make it a family or friend activity. Let’s make this more than just a challenge, let’s make it a celebration of movement and connection.
The Prize
The winner gets a special well-being reward to keep you feeling great and motivated, proof that all those steps weren’t just for bragging rights (though you’ll get those too). Lace up, step up, and let’s see who walks away with the glory! We have prices for the top 3 finishers.
How to Participate
Participating is super easy, but of course, there need to be a way to track all those steps! For this challenge, we’re using the Pacer app. It’s free, easy to set up, and a great way to keep tabs on your progress.
For more details and to participate, click on the link and join:
https://www.mypacer.com/challenges/biu5i8v4/june-is-temporary-a-walk-w-nonodesushin-is-4ever
The good guys win again.
I stopped carrying a gun in 1987 a year after the Philippines EDSA revolution. At the end of the Martial Law.
People think men like me quit because we find God, or because we get old and scared. That happens sometimes. But the truth is uglier than that.
Sometimes you stop because one day, something looks back at you from the dark… and you realize you’re the monster.
Back then I worked collections around the port area. Not officially. Nothing official existed there. We collected debts, scared people, broke fingers if someone refused to pay. Sometimes politicians used us. Sometimes cops looked away. Sometimes they drank with us after.
The place smelled like rust, canal water, and old blood baked into concrete.
I was nineteen when this happened.
People romanticize the 80s now. They imagine disco lights and action movies. They don’t remember the slums. The children sleeping beside drainage canals. The sound of mothers coughing behind plywood walls. The way hunger changed people into animals.
That morning, me and two friends were walking home half-drunk after “work.” Dawn hadn’t fully arrived yet. The sky was still gray-blue, the kind that makes every building look dead.
That’s when we saw the boy.
He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Skinny as a broomstick. Pushing a dirty ice cream cart with one broken wheel. His slippers were different sizes.
My friend whistled at him.
“Hoy,” he called, pulling out his revolver. “You got money in there?”
The kid froze.
I remember how tired he looked.
Not scared.
Just tired.
We circled him, laughing, pointing the gun around because that’s what idiots with power do when they’re young. We weren’t even planning to rob him seriously. We just wanted entertainment before going home.
Then the boy asked us something strange.
“Do you kill people for money?”
We laughed immediately.
My friend even pointed at himself dramatically. “Of course. We’re professionals.”
Bullshit. We weren’t hitmen. We were just street dogs pretending to be wolves.
But the boy didn’t laugh.
He looked at each of us carefully before speaking again.
“How much?”
Something in my stomach tightened.
I told him to go home.
Instead, he said he had savings. He said he could show us. He kept insisting like a desperate customer bargaining for fish in the market.
I remember thinking maybe he wanted an abusive father dead. Maybe some addict uncle. Those stories weren’t rare.
So I played along.
I told him to bring the money the next afternoon. I planned to take it and disappear after. Easy money.
The kid nodded seriously, like we had finalized some sacred agreement.
Before leaving, he asked one question.
“Can you make it painless?”
I should’ve walked away right there.
But I didn’t.
The next day we waited near an abandoned lot behind some warehouses. The place stank of wet garbage and stagnant water. Dogs barked somewhere far away.
The boy arrived exactly on time.
And he wasn’t alone.
He was holding the hand of a little boy wearing a school uniform.
Maybe five years old.
The little kid looked sleepy. Confused. Carrying a tiny backpack with cartoon characters on it.
I got angry immediately.
“What the hell are you doing bringing him here?” I shouted.
The older boy didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he crouched in front of the child.
Slowly, carefully, he began removing the little boy’s school uniform.
His hands shook while folding the clothes neatly.
Not messy.
Not rushed.
Careful.
Like a mother preparing clothes for tomorrow.
I still remember every detail.
The oversized white shirt.
The tiny socks damp from puddle water.
The little boy quietly asking, “Kuya, are we going somewhere?”
The older brother smiled at him after folding the clothes into a plastic bag.
That smile still visits me in my sleep.
Then he opened the notebook inside the backpack. Money was hidden between the pages. Crumpled bills. Coins taped together.
Savings.
Probably months of it.
He handed everything to me.
My friend stopped laughing.
None of us spoke.
The older boy looked down at the little one beside him and said quietly:
“We’re tired already.”
At first I didn’t understand.
Then he continued.
“Please include him too.”
The world became very silent after that.
Even the dogs stopped barking.
The boy kept talking softly, like he was discussing the weather.
He said they were hungry all the time. He said their mother disappeared days ago. Their father beat them whenever he came home drunk. Sometimes men entered the house at night. Sometimes they hid outside until morning.
Then he asked me something I will hear until I die.
“If you shoot us… can you do it where my brother won’t notice anymore?”
My mind went blank.
The little brother was holding his hand the entire time.
Trusting him completely.
I remember the younger child yawning while the older one negotiated their deaths.
That was the moment something inside me cracked open.
Not guilt.
Not pity.
Something worse.
Because for the first time in my life, I understood there were things even monsters couldn’t stomach.
The older boy kept speaking.
“No knives,” he whispered. “He’s scared of pain.”
I slapped him before I even realized it.
Hard.
He stumbled sideways.
Then I slapped him again.
And again.
I screamed at him. Called him stupid. Crazy. Ungrateful. I cursed him for thinking death was the answer.
The little boy started crying immediately.
The older one didn’t.
He just stood there taking the hits like he expected them.
That destroyed me more than anything.
Children are supposed to cry when they’re hurt.
Not stand there like exhausted old men.
Eventually I threw the money back at him and walked away.
I don’t remember getting home.
I just remember vomiting beside a drainage canal while the sun rose.
After that day, every robbery felt different.
Every time I pointed a gun at someone, I saw that little boy in the school uniform.
Every time I heard children laughing outside, I wondered if those brothers survived.
Or if they eventually found someone willing to finish the job.
I never saw them again.
I never looked for them either.
Maybe because I was afraid.
Not of them.
Of what I’d discover.
I’m an old man now. Most of the people I ran with are dead. Some were shot. Some disappeared. Some became politicians, which honestly isn’t very different.
But every now and then, usually around dawn, I still wake up hearing that boy’s voice.
Soft.
Polite.
Asking if we could make sure his little brother wouldn’t feel anything.
Inspired from this r/offmychest post.
https://www.reddit.com/r/OffMyChestPH/s/xJkoFFG39b
‐-------------------------
I stopped carrying a gun in 1987.
People think men like me quit because we find God, or because we get old and scared. That happens sometimes. But the truth is uglier than that.
Sometimes you stop because one day, something looks back at you from the dark… and you realize you’re the monster.
Back then I worked collections around the port area. Not officially. Nothing official existed there. We collected debts, scared people, broke fingers if someone refused to pay. Sometimes politicians used us. Sometimes cops looked away. Sometimes they drank with us after.
The place smelled like rust, canal water, and old blood baked into concrete.
I was nineteen when this happened.
People romanticize the 80s now. They imagine disco lights and action movies. They don’t remember the slums. The children sleeping beside drainage canals. The sound of mothers coughing behind plywood walls. The way hunger changed people into animals.
That morning, me and two friends were walking home half-drunk after “work.” Dawn hadn’t fully arrived yet. The sky was still gray-blue, the kind that makes every building look dead.
That’s when we saw the boy.
He couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Skinny as a broomstick. Pushing a dirty ice cream cart with one broken wheel. His slippers were different sizes.
My friend whistled at him.
“Hoy,” he called, pulling out his revolver. “You got money in there?”
The kid froze.
I remember how tired he looked.
Not scared.
Just tired.
We circled him, laughing, pointing the gun around because that’s what idiots with power do when they’re young. We weren’t even planning to rob him seriously. We just wanted entertainment before going home.
Then the boy asked us something strange.
“Do you kill people for money?”
We laughed immediately.
My friend even pointed at himself dramatically. “Of course. We’re professionals.”
Bullshit. We weren’t hitmen. We were just street dogs pretending to be wolves.
But the boy didn’t laugh.
He looked at each of us carefully before speaking again.
“How much?”
Something in my stomach tightened.
I told him to go home.
Instead, he said he had savings. He said he could show us. He kept insisting like a desperate customer bargaining for fish in the market.
I remember thinking maybe he wanted an abusive father dead. Maybe some addict uncle. Those stories weren’t rare.
So I played along.
I told him to bring the money the next afternoon. I planned to take it and disappear after. Easy money.
The kid nodded seriously, like we had finalized some sacred agreement.
Before leaving, he asked one question.
“Can you make it painless?”
I should’ve walked away right there.
But I didn’t.
The next day we waited near an abandoned lot behind some warehouses. The place stank of wet garbage and stagnant water. Dogs barked somewhere far away.
The boy arrived exactly on time.
And he wasn’t alone.
He was holding the hand of a little boy wearing a school uniform.
Maybe five years old.
The little kid looked sleepy. Confused. Carrying a tiny backpack with cartoon characters on it.
I got angry immediately.
“What the hell are you doing bringing him here?” I shouted.
The older boy didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he crouched in front of the child.
Slowly, carefully, he began removing the little boy’s school uniform.
His hands shook while folding the clothes neatly.
Not messy.
Not rushed.
Careful.
Like a mother preparing clothes for tomorrow.
I still remember every detail.
The oversized white shirt.
The tiny socks damp from puddle water.
The little boy quietly asking, “Kuya, are we going somewhere?”
The older brother smiled at him after folding the clothes into a plastic bag.
That smile still visits me in my sleep.
Then he opened the notebook inside the backpack. Money was hidden between the pages. Crumpled bills. Coins taped together.
Savings.
Probably months of it.
He handed everything to me.
My friend stopped laughing.
None of us spoke.
The older boy looked down at the little one beside him and said quietly:
“We’re tired already.”
At first I didn’t understand.
Then he continued.
“Please include him too.”
The world became very silent after that.
Even the dogs stopped barking.
The boy kept talking softly, like he was discussing the weather.
He said they were hungry all the time. He said their mother disappeared days ago. Their father beat them whenever he came home drunk. Sometimes men entered the house at night. Sometimes they hid outside until morning.
Then he asked me something I will hear until I die.
“If you shoot us… can you do it where my brother won’t notice anymore?”
My mind went blank.
The little brother was holding his hand the entire time.
Trusting him completely.
I remember the younger child yawning while the older one negotiated their deaths.
That was the moment something inside me cracked open.
Not guilt.
Not pity.
Something worse.
Because for the first time in my life, I understood there were things even monsters couldn’t stomach.
The older boy kept speaking.
“No knives,” he whispered. “He’s scared of pain.”
I slapped him before I even realized it.
Hard.
He stumbled sideways.
Then I slapped him again.
And again.
I screamed at him. Called him stupid. Crazy. Ungrateful. I cursed him for thinking death was the answer.
The little boy started crying immediately.
The older one didn’t.
He just stood there taking the hits like he expected them.
That destroyed me more than anything.
Children are supposed to cry when they’re hurt.
Not stand there like exhausted old men.
Eventually I threw the money back at him and walked away.
I don’t remember getting home.
I just remember vomiting beside a drainage canal while the sun rose.
After that day, every robbery felt different.
Every time I pointed a gun at someone, I saw that little boy in the school uniform.
Every time I heard children laughing outside, I wondered if those brothers survived.
Or if they eventually found someone willing to finish the job.
I never saw them again.
I never looked for them either.
Maybe because I was afraid.
Not of them.
Of what I’d discover.
I’m an old man now. Most of the people I ran with are dead. Some were shot. Some disappeared. Some became politicians, which honestly isn’t very different.
But every now and then, usually around dawn, I still wake up hearing that boy’s voice.
Soft.
Polite.
Asking if we could make sure his little brother wouldn’t feel anything.
I saw this post on FB and it made me think of Baguio when I was a kid.
I still remember the first thing that welcomed you to Baguio.
Not the traffic.
Not the crowded sidewalks.
Not the endless rows of cars crawling up Session Road.
It was the air.
That unmistakable smell of pine trees mixed with cold mountain fog. The kind of air that instantly told you: “Nasa Baguio ka na.” Even old movies have those lines. Ung pelikula ni Andrew E kng paano nila na convince si Angelika Dela Cruz na nasa Baguio sila (bulag sya nun).
As a kid, that smell meant home.
It meant Christmas lights along Harrison Road.
It meant jackets pulled tight while walking through Burnham at dawn.
It meant waking up freezing in the morning and seeing your breath in the air.
It meant peace. Freshness. Escape.
Back then, people came here to breathe.
Now when I saw that post, that question hurts more than it should. Because they’re not entirely wrong anymore.
Somewhere along the way, the city kept growing faster than it could heal. Buildings kept rising while the rivers underneath slowly died. More tourists arrived, more cars filled the roads, more waste flowed through old drainage systems never built for this kind of pressure. Creeks that once carried cold mountain water now carry the smell of neglect.
The pine scent that used to define Baguio is slowly being drowned out by sewage, pollution, overcrowding, and smoke.
And maybe what hurts the most is that many of us watched it happen little by little. So slowly that we almost got used to it.
The city that once felt like a sanctuary now struggles to breathe itself.
This isn’t about hating Baguio.
People complain because they love it.
Because they remember what it used to be.
Because they know this city deserves better than becoming another overdeveloped tourist stop gasping under its own weight.
Baguio was never supposed to smell like canals.
It was supposed to smell like rain on pine needles.
Like cold mornings.
Like fresh mountain wind rushing through the trees.
I miss the Baguio where silence still existed at night.
Where rivers looked alive.
Where the air felt clean enough to heal you.
Where being here felt different from the lowlands in every possible way.
I still love this city.
But loving a city also means admitting when it’s hurting.
And right now, Baguio is hurting.
I just hope the next generation of kids will still know what pine trees smell like. Believe me, ung naamoy nyong pine trees ngaun kng meron man? Walang wala yan nung 1990s and below.
Baguio's slogan Breath Baguio? It's nowhere near reality.