Christina Moran had survived toxic managers, delayed salaries, and a love triangle that felt like a poorly written teleserye.
But nothing compared to the daily battle she faced with her inverted nose.
It was a nose that defied gravity. A nose that pointed skyward like it was trying to catch divine Wi-Fi. A nose that, unfortunately, had zero waterproofing.
Take showers, for example.
Most people found showers relaxing. A time to reflect. To sing. To cry silently.
Not Christina.
For her, every shower was a near-death experience.
The moment the water hit her face, it was like her nostrils opened a portal to Atlantis. She'd choke, sputter, and emerge from the bathroom looking like she'd just fought Poseidon.
Her shampoo bottle had a warning label:
"Not recommended for upward-facing nostrils."
Rainy days? Forget it.
While others danced in the drizzle, Christina wore a full-face snorkel mask just to walk to the jeepney stop. One time, she forgot it and sneezed out half a puddle.
"Ma'am, are you okay?" a concerned vendor asked.
"I'm fine," she replied, water dripping from her nose like a faucet. "Just nature trying to assassinate me."
Even nosebleeds were dramatic.
Instead of dripping down, they fountained upward, like a reverse volcano. Her officemates once mistook it for a performance art piece.
"Is this part of the wellness program?" someone asked.
"No," she said, stuffing tissue into her nostrils. "It's just my body rebelling against physics."
Her nose had also ruined selfies.
Every time she tried to take a cute angle, the camera would catch her nostrils first—like they were trying to photobomb her own face.
One officemate tried to help: "Tilt your head down, Christina."
She did.
She drowned in her own sweat.
But despite all this, Christina remained undefeated.
She wore her nose like a crown. A weird, upside-down, slightly flood-prone crown.
Because if the world was going to judge her by her nose, she was going to make sure it was the funniest damn nose they'd ever seen.