Whistling Works

First, allow me to congratulate my honorable, proficient, and diligent friends from De La Salle University ID105 who have recently graduated. To my beloved, LR45ers, you all share a special place in my heart. You are true friends, and truly wonderful people. Godspeed in your future endeavors.

Secondly, the following essay was meant to be written last Friday, and as to maintain the level of emotion I had originally planned for this essay, I will do a pseudo Kronos and turn back time.

I lost four friends yesterday.
It's one of those things that you know happen to people, but you rely on the statistical fact that it can almost never happen to you. Of course, Murphy's law has a nasty back bite. I had 2 term papers to write for school. One was a 12 page paper for my Ethics class, and the other was my cognitive research project. I was done with both, except for finishing touches on my cognitive research project, so I volunteered to edit, print, and submit the compiled ethics paper of my group. I'm just nice like that. My ethics class was at 10:30 in the morning. I had planned the whole day carefully. I would wake up at 6, start up my laptop, and start editing the compiled paper. I would be done by 7:30. I would have the paper printed at the net cafe nearby, then leave the neighborhood by 8. I would reach school at 9:30, and all would be well. Unfortunately, things went wrong.

-I woke up at 6, and checked my email. None of my group mates had uploaded their work.
-I waited until 7. At 7:15 I discovered that they had uploaded their papers, but had chosen not to send the "new file uploaded" email. I began editing the paper.
-None of them followed the specified format, so I had to format everything.
-My MS Word broke down, so I had to relocate to the internet cafe at 7:45. They only had Open Office (scourge of all students).
-I finished editing the paper at 8. I had it printed.
-The printer printed at a rate of one page a minute. The paper was 82 pages long.
-When the printing reached page 60, they discovered that they ran out of ink, and pages 40-60 were cut in places, and were unreadable.
-I panicked and called my group mates at 9:10. No one picked up.
-At 9:20 I got to contact a group mate, and I told her to print pages 60-82. Right after that conversation, the cafe worker informed me that they fast drafted pages 40-60. They could have done that earlier, but they chose to have me wait an eternity.
-I left the neighborhood at 9:25. I asked my mom to bring me to school, since it takes an hour to get from the house to Ateneo in a car.
-There was a vehicular accident in Quirino. Traffic.
-There was a vehicular accident in EDSA-Guadalupe. Traffic.
-We had to reroute through Pasig.
-Fr. David gives automatic Fs to late papers.
-This paper was 30% of our final grade.
-I was late for class.

They wouldn't even look at me. No one asked what happened, and no one answered me when I asked them what I had missed. It was my fault, sure, as I should have edited it earlier, and true enough, the final avoidable instance lay with me. Legally it is my fault. I don't deny it. What hurts though is that whatever friendship I had with them, formed through the infinite number of shared activities we had to endure under Fr. David's instruction, was destroyed by a singular instance. We had inside jokes that only we understood. We had shared insights that were formed by hours of philosophical reflection. We had our memories of touring the City of Manila together. We were each others consolation. We supported each other through the whole of what was a seemingly unbearable class. Fr. David forced us together, and we somehow made do with the coerced cluster. We became genuine friends. I broke that friendship. I guess friendships, much like elements don't form true bonds under artificial circumstances.
What then can one do about broken friendships? I would try to apologize, but really, in such a situation, even I couldn't forgive myself. Would anyone take a rushed apology seriously? Apologizing right after a disheartening act would seem artificial, almost routine. What people fail to understand is that I am not one of those who simply know their pain. Their grades are now shot. It's entirely my fault. My grade is affected as well. I don't care though. I feel their pain. It's more than guilt. It's anguish. Their anguish is my anguish. It's funny, looking back at the car ride to school. I was literally bawling my eyes out, pulling my hair and scratching my face. A bit melodramatic I know, but how best to express anguish than by self mutilation and emotional outrage. Empathy is a curse, not a virtue.
What then can I do but sit stoic ly in my chair, humming "Young Folk" by Peter Bjorn and John. I can't whistle, but the melody would be the Trans-Pop equivalent of All American Rejects' "Move Along." Really, what can anyone do in such a situation but take it in stride. So there I was, twiddling my thumbs, and humming like an idiot. Chillax was the word of the day. When the bell rang, they approached Fr. David, asking if he would still accept the paper. He did. They returned to their seats around mine, gathered their things, and left me sitting alone. I guess I did deserve it, but it doesn't hide the fact that the entire experience hurt. It's Murphy's way of saying, "told you so."
So, friends were lost, and I took the day in stride. The day never improved, and I ended up tearing up on the commute way to my Mom's office. That's how it works. Who am I to complain?