When Christmas rolled around last year, I was interning at a private hospital in Bacolod. In that hospital, it had become a tradition for post-graduate interns to go caroling and extort money from the consultants to fund the end-of-internship trip to Boracay. Highest collection since the start of the tradition was P75,000 so the bar was set pretty high already.
Now, not all of us could dance. I could sing well enough to stay in tune but I was no performer. But there was just something about the people there that made me achieve the impossible. I sang and danced. For money.
I sang and danced for money.
And after we sang and danced for money, we posed like the moneymakers we were.
This went on for about a month. Maybe there was something in the Negros water but I would never ever have done this in my hometown. I guess geography really does have an effect on lifestyle. Anyway, it wasn't permanent. I crammed this side of me into a footlocker a million leagues under the sea the moment I stepped onto a boat on my way home to lovely, sedate Cagayan de Oro.
BTW, we raised P110,000. What up! (I love Barney...)
I sang and danced for money.
And after we sang and danced for money, we posed like the moneymakers we were.
This went on for about a month. Maybe there was something in the Negros water but I would never ever have done this in my hometown. I guess geography really does have an effect on lifestyle. Anyway, it wasn't permanent. I crammed this side of me into a footlocker a million leagues under the sea the moment I stepped onto a boat on my way home to lovely, sedate Cagayan de Oro.
BTW, we raised P110,000. What up! (I love Barney...)
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