It’s also the title of a Ninotchka Rosca novel.

Except that I haven’t read it yet.

But these two words can also describe what my life is like right now, despite the pressures of meeting rent payments while keeping at least six bottles of beer in the fridge. (Not an easy balancing act, I can tell you that.)

A few years back, for no apparent reason, journalist and writer Frank Cimatu — whom I still have to meet in person — asked me to submit one of my short stories as part of Mondo Marcos, an anthology of short fiction and essays about the experience of a generation to which I am ashamed to belong (and only because it reveals my age): Martial law babies.

And now, that volume, to be published by Anvil, will be launched this year. Or so Frank has told its contributors on Facebook.

If it does get produced, the book will be the second anthology featuring my work.

Another short story of mine — The Man Who Came Home — was included in Nine Supernatural Stories, which was published by the University of the Philippines.

And for these achievements however minor, I deserve an ice-cold beer.

The question now is: how many short stories should I chalk up to entitle myself to a deep and meaningful relationship with a really hot chick?

Just thinking out loud of course.