The Ol' Number 2

WHEN was the last time you took a shit and just... did that?

No fumbling with a smartphone. No desperately trying to clutch a round in your favorite mobile FPS on a tablet. Just you, a lit cigarette, and the quiet dignity of the morning throne. I tried it today, and let me tell you, unplugging on the commode is a revelation.

Without a screen to stare at, you actually start looking at the walls.

I noticed a line of ants going about their business. Whenever two columns met, they seemed to pause and greet each other before continuing on their merry, industrious way. It got me thinking: if these tiny insects, driven only by a primal urge to labor, have the decency to acknowledge a passerby, why can't we?

We walk past neighbors, coworkers, and strangers with our faces buried in screens, entirely detached. If humanity just adopted this simple "Ant Protocol" — a brief pause, a nod, a basic recognition of another living being sharing the same daily grind — we might just begin to cure the modern epidemic of isolation. A society that acknowledges its own members is a society that actually holds together.

Looking slightly to the left, my eyes landed on the shower head. It’s a recent luxury. It took me three solid years of living in the boondocks of Indahag (or as I like to call it, "In The Hague") to finally get a shower head in this bathroom.

Staring at it took me right back to our old home in Villa Ernesto. Times were much simpler then. Our biggest dilemma wasn't bandwidth or digital clout; it was figuring out who got to greet Emilio first when he returned from Cotabato City. Paldo ang makauna. The first one to greet him always got the windfall.

There’s a profound lesson in that memory, too. We used to eagerly anticipate the physical arrival of the people in our lives. We celebrated their actual presence. Today, we barely look up when someone walks into the room. If we practiced that same Villa Ernesto enthusiasm for the people walking through our doors today, we’d build stronger communities and vastly happier homes.

But perhaps the biggest game changer of my morning ritual is the simple fact that I no longer have to cross a street to do my business. Crow's Nest 1.0, the 50-year-old ancestral home of my ex-girlfriend's family, had a busted toilet. Number ones, number twos — every bodily function required a trek across the street to the in-laws.

I remember a certain house guest from Davao City using that exact fact to mock and ridicule me on social media. This is the same person currently tangled in the news for bribery allegations, who thought my lack of private plumbing was the perfect comeback simply because I refused to support the extrajudicial killings of her/his/its boss — nay, her/his/its god.

Well, look at me now. Whenever nature calls, I just stand up from my bed and walk exactly five paces. Victory is sweet, and it flushes.

Speaking of the bed, that’s an upgrade too. For the longest time, my ex and I slept on the floor — first on a humble banig, which eventually evolved into a Japanese-style mattress on the floor. Progress, for me, is measured in these small, quiet comforts.

Flush...

I haven't had a conversation this deep with myself in ages, and it all happened simply because I took a shit without my digital gizmos.

So, the next time you need to drop the ol' number two, try doing it old-school. 

Leave the phone on the desk.

You’ll be surprised at the level of introspection you can achieve when you aren't distracted. Plus, you get some truly alone time — without letting Meta’s algorithms figure out what brand of toilet soap you’re using.

But hey, data privacy in the bathroom? That’s a blog for another day.