I asked Entrecard this: How can I convert my credits into cash? If non-convertible, how will these credits be used?

Entrecard’s answer: You can not convert the credits to cash. You can use your credits to advertise on other blogs.

Worst blog ever! The blog intended to spam the internet goes to www.junaldpascua.info. Please don’t visit the site, it is a clear source of spams. This type of blog makes the internet so bad. Why junaldpascua.info a scam? Because it claims to give breaking news and information, when in fact it actually isn’t doing any of those.

For instance, when the Bay Area earthquake happened in San Francisco, junaldpascua.info said this:

We are alerted with the news about the Bay Area Earthquake. This earthquake became very famous in the Internet today. Have you gathered enough details about it?

Then the blogger, Junald Pascua, asked his readers to “watch the full videos of Bay Area Earthquake at the URL below, just copy and paste the URL below to your address bar now.” The thing is, there is actually no link below the post, nor a video about the Bay Area Earthquake. What is below the post is Adsense. Thus, he is actually asking readers to click on his ads so he could earn. This is against Adsense policies. What a scam!

With the existence of online technology, who isn’t into blogging? Many of those who are spending hours in the web are most likely maintaining online sites where they write anything they do, from protesting on the streets to commenting on the recent calamities to crying from heartbreak to sharing hobbies and shopping list, to even the daily weather condition.

A quick googling will reveal that a blog is the newest form of journalism with a reverse chronology, unfiltered content, comments, links, a relaxed attitude, and appropriated text. It is a short cut for a web log, a place where you can cover your own event and present it in an informal tone you want. A blog is your rants in a journal that is made public and readers post comments online.

Do your friends take your childhood disappointments and misadventures seriously? As for mine, sadly, never mind. In a conversation I had with close friends yesterday, never have they been sorry about my stories spiced up with sour remembrances of days past. Am I inadequate with attention? Fine if they laughed. It was worse when those moments I wanted them to hear didn’t seem to have significance of sorts. Not meaningful enough.

Maybe, it’s funny for me to be forlorn over spilt milk. Come on. Is there really no sense in looking back and basking in the afterthought that I can still dignify, by dint of memory, even the foregone moments I once detested but now merrily summon. Like when …

What’s wrong with him? What’s with that slight cacophony in the way he moves nowadays? Every day, he senses a lovey-dovey cadence of delight he only felt in the comfort of a swing in the backyard back home.

He is the composed gentleman. He is acutely aware that he is, at this moment, engaging in a world he never existed in so well. As you are about to read, he is on his way to dipping his toes into the relationship puddle after a significant bout of solitude.

It’s all because of Miss Eve. His heart has been lying dead for the past months. He could describe it as an organ that had lost its joie de vivre, the strength to possess that capacity to love. Yet, here comes Eve, pricks it with her smile and intoxicating giggles and a hip that sways to a rhythm she alone can create, and, without further elucidation, his heart realizes that there is life after death.

It has been four days and everything looks a little beyond ordinary. Few books on my desk. The bag in a corner with one of its slings about to disintegrate after hours of clinging to a loose thread. Beddings arranged one on top of the other. The slick Vanguard tripod I brought hasn’t been moved – its legs somewhat dusty. Some old pictures taped on the mirror and a couple of postcards posted on the wall. Two lonely chairs, the black metallic floor and the slightly opened door…

Nothing is moving as if my Wecota Annex room is devoid of the slightest breath. In the flash of stillness, or the impassivity of almost everything, I play a different music in my mind of believing and not to. Believing that somehow a thing hidden somewhere in this room is not controlled by the momentary placidity. Not believing that nothing is moving. Believing that the bed lamp, glowing in its 60 watts bulb, providing a rather dim yellowish or could be golden light, being squared by a wooden two-deck bed and circled by my own imaginings, is imaginarily breathing.