I passed by Araneta and saw a huge poster announcing that the coliseum was hosting the “biggest cockfighting competition of the century” next month. It was then when I suddenly remembered eating sundae at McDonald’s Kamias with Martin.
More of the sundae than Martin perhaps—the hot chocolate, drizzled above the sugary and pasty frozen concoction they pass off as ice cream, sloppily smeared all over my mouth, me enjoying that cheap treat like a pimply teenage boy who was watching porn for the first time.
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