My early experiences of elections are a hazy picture of shortened classes giving way to election-related activities. I remember we would form parties in class based on either our class numbers, or phone brigade groups, or even a lottery.

Back then, a party was simply a necessary splitting that had to be done so we little ones could go through the process of nominating and electing our leaders.

We would push our chairs to the side and sit on the floor in groups, discussing our platforms as seriously as single-digit aged individuals could.

Back then, if you were good at making acronyms — you were valuable.

Also, come Miting de Avance, possession of performance skills whether they be singing, dancing, or gymnastics meant you would be a star.

Extra points if you sang things like Heal the World or If We Hold On Together.

Having an over-eager stage parent all too willing to bake batches and batches of brownies, painstakingly labeled with a cute and flowery card telling your classmate to vote for you also came in handy.

I'm pretty sure service wasn't on our minds when we ran for president, vice president, secretary, treasurer, representative, or, everyone’s favorite — P.R.O.

Being a Public Relations Officer meant you got to be excused from class a lot.

For what reasons, I can't really remember.

I do remember one candidate saying in her speech that it was her "fervent wish" that we would vote for her, and I was floored by her extensive vocabulary.

We were in second grade at the time and in retrospect I should have known she probably had a speech writer. Or maybe I'm just sourgraping. I never got to use fervent in a speech.

In any case, grade school elections were pretty much a popularity contest.

Kids would win because they had great sticker collections — which they generously distributed among the class. Kids would lose because they wore glasses, or braces, or both.

In high school, it got better.

By this time, we actually cared about who would be on our Student Council.

Of course we cared. We were teenagers and we liked to think we had rights (or maybe we just liked to think we were right).

When I got to college, I developed an aversion to local politics.

Come election season, I would arrive at school either very early or very late.

Whoever designed our campus had the brilliant idea of having exactly one entry and exit point — a nightmare of quarreling couples or worse, frats.

This was also a nightmare for people with OCD, because campaign period meant the candidates would be strategically (annoyingly) positioned along the narrow walkway where all conscientious students would have to pass on their way to class.

To get to class, one would have to shake an average of six hands, none of which were clean, I'm sure.

Growing up watching Safeguard ads that always magnified crawling germs may be to blame for my paranoia.

Failing my ninja arrivals and departures, I would distribute the contents of my bag so that my hands were literally full and no one in their right mind could still expect a handshake.

Maybe politicians (even the campus breed) really are a bit off their rockers.

Some of those candidates would keep extending their hands to me, as if their limbs were permanently positioned that way.

It isn't just the handshaking that bothered me.

So much mudslinging, so much dirt. There was one group in particular that loved to assault the general public by calling anyone who wasn’t one of them apathetic.

I would have loved to tell them that just because a student doesn't take to the streets it doesn't mean that student isn't doing anything for the country, but I didn't think they'd hear me over their megaphones.

I'm all for casting your vote and getting your voice heard, but I'm sure you'll understand if I say, not now, I'm tired.

I'm tired of seeing poster-plastered walls that I just know will be there as long as the walls are there. I'm tired of not being able to sleep because of the inane jingles blaring from the street. I'm tired of not being able to sleep because of news that someone got shot again because they were running for this or that, or worse, someone got shot because they were mistaken for a candidate.

I'm tired of hearing people say they're voting for someone, without being able to say why. I'm tired of the slim pickings. I'm tired of thinking that my vote won't matter.

Even so, I will be voting, because I did not line up for hours to register for nothing.

I will be voting, because whether or not my choices win, I want them to know that at least one person believes in them. I will be voting, but before that, I think I’ll stay away from all the noise.

I just know my candidates won't win. For the same reason that all my favorite things disappear from the menu.

I seem to like the stuff that people don’t even look at. I'll still vote, though.

I'll admit that I still fall under the young and idealistic category. I want to change the world. I just don’t think politics is how.

This is one reason why I'm vegetarian, but that's another story.

It is my not-so-secret wish to someday have achieved something that will qualify me to speak to a bunch of graduates so I can tell them what I think.

And my first words will be: Have fun today, because it's the last day you have a legitimate excuse for being jobless.

That is, of course, assuming you aren't planning to pursue further studies. And that is the real topic of this entry. The masters degree.

Most people balk at the idea of spending more time in school. And rightly so.

When you think about it, we spend a couple of years in pre-school, six or seven in elementary, four in high school, and another four or five in higher education. That's almost two decades of your life right there. So why would you want to prolong the agony?

There are lots of reasons for getting a masters degree, ranging from the infuriating "wala lang" to the more common "it's a requirement for my job" to the rare "I just love school so much," said with a dreamy look usually reserved for matinee idols.

Writer (and MA student) Siege Malvar once told me that what's important is your motivations are clear to you.

For me, a masters degree is a chance at redemption.

Assuming you can afford it (it's not that expensive, especially if you convince your parents they love you and want you to study what you really, really want), attaching an MA to your name (no matter how long it already is) is not a bad idea.

Let's say you enjoyed yourself a bit too much in college and let your grades slip a little.

Just a little, you still finished with a decent transcript, and you learned a lot more than your Latin honored batch mates who never said yes to a social invitation. And that's all good.

Even if you didn't slack off in college, and your grades were great — if you get a masters, they'll be even better!

Especially if you aren't quite sure what to do with your undergraduate degree, which was true in my case.

Let's say your undergraduate degree is one of those glitzy-sounding courses, the ones you can't quite explain. The jack of all trades courses, and yes, master of none.

The masters degree is an excellent solution to feeling too thinly spread out. You may feel like an all-purpose product, saying you were trained to do this, and that, and that, too.

But what are you good at? A masters degree will give you some focus.

Let's say you're the type that loved school so much, you dreaded sembreaks and summer vacation.

You're the kid who can't wait to go to school to check what section you’re in, who makes lists of school supplies to buy, and lovingly covers and labels every ruler, notebook, and protractor.

Sometimes you even label your pencils.

You're the kid who smiles to himself in the middle of a particularly stimulating lecture. The thought of not going to school makes your heart pound and your stomach turn. This separation anxiety is easily solved by staying in school.

And then let's say you want some vindication, a shiny happy new transcript to distract future employers from your lackluster undergraduate record.

A masters degree will give you that, especially if there's a rule that states graduate students may not incur a grade lower than 2.0.

Also, something that will qualify you to be compared with your sister, who was born to outshine you.

For instance, your batch rank is 9, hers is 2. You pursue a masters degree, and she goes into law. That sort of thing. Don't worry. There's always a PhD.

P.S. Among the serious things I will say in the unlikely event that I am ever asked to address a graduating class are the following:

• Wear sunscreen. Seriously. Mary Schmich really knew what she was talking about. And with El Nino’s cruel 38 degree weather, not wearing sunscreen is just loony.
  
• Don’t worry about your resume. Eventually, your work experience will overshadow your education, and you won’t have to put that you were “Most Improved.” In kindergarten.
  
• Remember the times you swore you would never, ever, do that again? Whether that refers to cramming for a presentation or drinking way too much on a weekday — it isn’t true. Work is like school. Except you get paid.
  
• There is no such thing as overqualified. No task is too little to matter.
  
• There is no such thing as underqualified. According to spell check, and because no task is too difficult to master.
  
• Every time you think you’re sure, someone will prove you wrong later.
  
• When in doubt, figure it out. Ask. Also, if you’re shy, Google is your friend.
  
• Tell your parents you love them and you will treat them to dinner with your first paycheck. Better yet, give them your first paycheck.
  
• Eat your veggies. Especially if you have vices. Which are alright, as long as you know what they are.
  
• Wear sunscreen. It’s so important, it needs to be said twice. Also, give credit where credit is due. In this case, here: Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen), by Baz Luhrmann, the musical interpretation of Mary Schmich’s 1997 essay “Advice, like youth, is wasted on the young.”
  
• Last, and not in least bit least, don’t listen to me. The only thing I know is I know nothing.