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Champion


Alright, listen up—my muse is in full-on concupiscent mode lately, which is a fancy way of saying she won’t let my brain rest. So here I am, trying to capture the experience without smashing it to bits under the weight of words. If you came here expecting a highbrow academic paper... nope. You can bail now. This ain’t that.

Picture me: balcony, laptop, coffee, and my muse—lusty as ever—deciding now is the perfect time to show up. Since writing without smokes is like trying to dance without music, I grabbed my umbrella and braved a rainstorm on steroids. Oh, and did I mention I live half a kilometer from civilization? Cows, horses, crickets—mountain life perks. Welcome to the wild.

Made it to the store and here’s Manang with the bad news: “No Marlboro, kuya. Nobody buys those anymore.” I blinked. “Champion lang po.” Champion? I thought I was gearing up for a symphony, not a fight with a cigarette. But whatever, I bought it.

Back on my throne (balcony chair), I lit my Champion…

Puff.
Blow.
Pause.
Taste.

Yuck. Disgusting. Paper city, population: my mouth.

Non-smokers might shrug and ask, “Should a cigarette really taste like anything? Aren’t they just leaves and paper anyway?” Sure, but like sinigang should never taste like pig guts, cigarettes shouldn’t taste like literal burnt paper. There’s a sweet spot, a harmony of flavors—if sinigang can get that right, why can’t a cigarette?

I refuse the “it’s all conditioning” excuse. Marlboro or not, I know a cigarette when I taste one. Like sinigang, even if it’s different, it’s still sinigang. Recognizable, undeniable.

Now, if we’re dipping into metaphor, people and relationships aren’t just their basic ingredients either. (No, they don’t taste like paper or sinigang—get your head out of the gutter.) The “essence” isn’t some Plato-meets-Aristotle cosmic joke. It’s more like this sad, dry, paper-tasting cigarette I’m holding right now. Just because it looks like a cigarette and smokes like a cigarette doesn’t mean it is one. Ducks might quack, but this thing tastes like a desperate impostor.

So, what makes a human, then? Cells? Organs? The usual yada yada? These components often turn people into objects, things to be exploited. Some steal billions, some start wars, some destroy just for kicks, and others sell their souls for fame and fortune. (No shade, Miley, but... yeah, maybe.)

To say essence is just the sum of parts misses the whole point. The Little Prince had it right: what’s essential is invisible to the naked eye. (Oops, distracted. Naked eye. Focus, dude.)

Humans aren’t just walking ideas or philosophies either—that would be too neat, too limiting. But reject all that, and you get... well, trash. A guy on a balcony, trying to woo his muse, smoking a cigarette that tastes like paper, writing nonsense about sinigang and essence.

And honestly? I’m enjoying every damn moment of it.

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