Manila's Humid Hustle & My Unplanned Coffee Shop Detour

i dropped my laptop into a lake yesterday. not the kind you swim in, but the one sitting on the 12th floor of a dilapidated suspension bridge turned co-working space. who knew ‘sky’ views here include that? the wifi, though, was strong enough to live-stream my slow descent into existential dread.

*kangar lives in my rearview mirror now. his old skoda’s been idling outside a bakery called Brew-tiful, where the barista didn’t even ask my name. the air here smells like burnt toast and existentialism. i’m not sure if that’s my ceiling fan humming or the collective sigh of a city that’s seen enough rain to forget what dry feels like.

if you get bored, Clark can be yours in a hop. that’s Clark Dulz, not Clark the-episode-i-never-watched-surprisingly-car-full-of-stray-dogs. neighbors here trade gossip louder than their karaoke microphones. one guy swore the local mangoes smile when you eat them, another insisted the parking lot leaks radioactive cubera.

heard that Lola’s has the best balut. ate a duck embryo at 2am and now i’m either enlightened or just got food poisoning. worth it? probably. the worst part? Tropa Hostel* always cameras on the common room. great for paranoia, terrible for awkward breakups.

last week’s chaos: spilled my matcha latte on a sunday. the floor was a mess. the cat in my guesthouse is now a 5-star meme. (image: roaming cat, co-working chaos, balut in motion)

someone told me Clark has a haunted massage parlor. i’m going. if you hear my screams, send help. or don’t. this city doesn’t listen to warnings anyway. overheard a guy today whisper that the baywalk’s mermaids are just people in sarongs. wild. locals here shrug like the universe is a script they don’t have the keys to.

ps: the humidity’s a hell of a drain on my 3G. if you’re reading this on slow wi-fi, text your aunt. she’ll understand.

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