Why does it always rain on me?


FRIDAY. I received the text message just when I was having a difficult time with our shoot. We were in Amoranto Stadium and we were supposed to shoot in the oval but apparently the typhoon had just arrived. I was thinking of scenes that we could shoot indoors but the wigs and the rest of the props were still in Broadway. The two hosts were already there and were beginning to get antsy. Suffice to say that I was in a state of great anxiety so when I finally received the message it nearly reduced me to tears.

“Every time he texts me, it always begin with a sorry,” the message read. “I think we should replace him and just give him a tip.”

Just give him a tip. Wow. I was being fired even before my career as a script editor has started. And to think that I was already enjoying writing the monologues and have already read the 200 page script. So there I was being fired for a job that I am beginning to really, really love because my day job, which I am beginning to really, really hate, is getting in the way. I looked at the hosts and thought about the materials that we were about to shoot (a race between three boys in high heels, kids eating kamias, a game consisting of three girls and 10 frogs and other stupidities) and wondered if this is what I really want to do with my already pitiful life. I wanted to take a hard look at what I have done to myself and my so-called career as a writer but the hosts were already complaining, the wigs have yet to arrive, and the rain was driving us all crazy.

SATURDAY. After spending the last 72 hours shooting 10 VTRs and preparing our materials for next week’s show, I was finally able to go home. I sent a text message to the boyfriend (whom I haven’t seen in three days) and asked if he wanted to meet in Trinoma for lunch. No reply. I thought maybe he was already in the shower taking a bath so I went straight to the mall. After almost half an hour it became apparent that the boyfriend was not coming. Of course I was fuming. I had this horrible thinking that if other people had sent a similar text message he would have been shitting himself in trying to make it on time. Since it was just me he was probably taking his sweet time in sending a reply. At that point I was already making a mental list of my misfortunes: I was dead broke. I am in a dead end stupid not to mention thankless job. I haven’t taken a bath in two days, I literally look like shit and my boyfriend had just stood me up. I was so depressed that I decided to treat myself to a coffee in a nearby café. I sat at the far end of the café, took out my notebook and cigarettes and did what every two-bit TV writer with literary pretensions should do: I started to write. And I wrote and I wrote until the rain finally came down.

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