I will be the first to admit: I am not an electrical engineer. I do not pretend to fully understand every technical detail behind rooftop solar, net metering, grid stability, or how power distribution systems work. So when MERALCO says there are safety concerns involving unregistered solar installations, I am willing to listen. If a household solar setup is connected to the grid, then yes, it probably cannot be treated as a purely private matter. Electricity can flow both ways, and if a system is badly installed, wrongly connected, or allowed to send power back into the lines when it should not, that could endanger linemen, neighbors, and the system itself.

That is where the bi-directional meter comes in. In a normal setup, electricity is assumed to flow one way: from MERALCO to the household. But with a grid-connected solar installation, a home may also produce excess power and send some of it back to the grid. The meter has to be able to read both directions properly. Otherwise, the billing becomes inaccurate, and the system may not be properly monitored. So yes, I understand why there needs to be some form of registration, inspection, and technical approval when a private solar system is tied to MERALCO’s distribution network. Safety is not a fake issue just because MERALCO is the one raising it.

But what bothers me is the language. Words like “crackdown” and “guerrilla” make ordinary citizens sound like criminals. They make it seem as if people putting solar panels on their roofs are running some kind of underground operation. That framing feels excessive, especially in a country where electricity bills have become a monthly source of dread for many households. If people are turning to solar, maybe the first assumption should not be that they are trying to cheat the system. Maybe they are trying to survive it. Maybe they are looking for relief. Maybe they are tired of feeling helpless every time a new bill arrives.

There should also be a clear distinction between solar systems connected to the grid and solar systems that stand on their own. If a household is exporting power back to MERALCO, then I can understand why MERALCO has to be involved. But what about a small stand-alone setup that charges batteries, powers selected appliances, or runs independently from the grid? That does not seem to be the same issue. It may still need to follow building, electrical, or fire-safety rules, of course. Nobody wants unsafe wiring or poorly mounted panels flying off a roof. But if the system is not feeding power into MERALCO’s lines, it is fair to ask where MERALCO’s authority begins and ends. Based on the reporting so far, the concern appears to be mainly about unregistered systems that are grid-connected or capable of affecting the distribution network—not purely private, off-grid setups.

This is why the tone matters. If power monopoly MERALCO and regulators want people to comply, they should make the process simple, affordable, and transparent. Explain the safety issue without making citizens feel hunted. Help homeowners regularize their systems without automatically treating them as violators. Because once the language becomes too aggressive, people will naturally wonder whether this is really about safety—or about protecting a monopoly’s control over the flow of power and revenue protection. Rooftop solar users should not be framed as enemies. In many cases, they may simply be people trying to reclaim a little control over their own electricity, one panel at a time.

The press needs to be a lot more skeptical of MERALCO’s explanations; because electricity isn’t like other things you buy. You can’t just “opt out” of it the way you’d switch coffee brands or cancel Netflix. When a power company adds charges, adjustments, pass-through costs, and regulatory fees, those decisions hit real people: families trying to make ends meet, workers, small business owners, and folks already drowning in rising prices. That means every breakdown of a bill is a public-interest story, not just a company explaining itself.

So it’s not enough for news reports to keep saying the charges are “legal,” “approved by regulators,” or “transparent.” Legal doesn’t automatically mean fair. A charge can follow all the rules and still be an unfair burden on consumers. A fee can get a regulatory stamp of approval and still deserve tough questions. When reporters just repeat MERALCO’s bill breakdown without pushing back on the logic behind it, they risk turning news coverage into a glorified script—neat, tidy, helpful to the company, but not nearly enough for the people actually paying the bill.

We need to ask harder questions, more often. Why do so many costs get passed straight to consumers? Who actually benefits from these arrangements? How much of the monthly bill comes from long-term contracts, fuel price swings, taxes, system losses, and other charges that ordinary households can’t control? Are regulators just checking boxes to confirm the charges follow the rules, or are they truly protecting consumers from a system that seems designed to protect utility profits? These aren’t fringe concerns. They’re basic questions any public-facing press should be asking when a private company provides an essential service under government regulation.

When journalists simply parrot MERALCO’s explanations, the danger is that it normalizes the burden. The public gets treated as if bill shock is just a technical, unavoidable fact of life: generation charge here, pass-through there, some regulatory approval in between. But behind those terms are real consequences. People skip meals, delay paying other bills, turn off the AC even when the heat is dangerous, or just take another monthly hit because the system has taught them there’s nothing to question. Journalism shouldn’t help make that suffering feel normal.

A more responsible press would still share MERALCO’s side—but it wouldn’t stop there. It would fact-check the company’s claims against independent experts, consumer advocates, past regulatory rulings, contract details, and real household impact. It would explain not just what the charges are, but why the public keeps paying them, and whether the whole setup actually serves the public good. In a country where electricity is expensive, wages are tight, and utilities hold enormous power, the press shouldn’t act as an echo chamber for the company sending out the bills. It should act as a watchdog for the people forced to pay them.

I just got my electric bill and I am now wishing for the annihilation of all power oligarchs in the Philippines! At the end of the day, the way the country’s power system is built, it’s really looking out for the energy companies first—not the people paying the bills. You’ve got a small handful of big private players running the show, locked into long-term deals that basically guarantee they’ll get their money back plus a nice, steady profit. They don’t have to sweat the way most businesses do when things go sideways.

These deals—Power Supply Agreements, or PSAs—are where the real story hides. They lock in prices for years, sometimes decades, and they often come with clauses that pay the companies even if the electricity isn’t fully used. On top of that, prices automatically move with fuel costs or foreign exchange rates. So whether demand drops or the economy wobbles, their income stays mostly safe.

But when costs go up? That doesn’t stick with the companies. It slides straight onto our plate. If global fuel prices jump or the peso takes a hit, we see it in our electric bill almost right away. Even inefficiencies or shady contract terms just trickle downhill. The system is basically wired so that we, the public, absorbs all the bumps by default.

That’s what makes this different from almost any other industry. Normally, companies take risks; they eat the losses when things go wrong. Here, they push that burden outward. Profits stay in-house, while the risks; from market chaos to simple bad planning; get carried by millions of regular consumers. And with so little competition, that cycle just keeps spinning.

So when people say power oligarchs lord it over the rest of us, it’s not always about blatant scams or secret tricks. It’s just that the whole system is shaped to float their boat. Sure, it keeps investment coming (so they say) and the lights on—but it does that by turning ordinary people, like me, into the sector’s shock absorbers, carrying all the downside while the upside stays tucked safely away.

I’ve done pretty much everything Instagram has asked me to do.

Out of nowhere, my account got suspended because of “activity they couldn’t verify” as mine. Okay, fine. I get it. Mistakes happen. So I did the whole process. I sent support emails. I went through identity verification. I even did their video selfie thing multiple times, hoping that maybe; just maybe; an actual human would look at my case and tell me what’s going on.

But… nothing.

No explanation. No real update. No actual person replying. Just silence, endless automated loops, and help articles that send me right back to the same support channels where nobody seems to be listening.

Eventually, after trying over and over to prove I’m actually the person behind my own account, I got locked out completely. More than a year now. Honestly, it doesn’t even feel like customer support anymore. It’s more like yelling into an empty room while a robot occasionally tells you to repeat yourself.

And that’s what drives me crazy. Instagram can build insanely smart systems to catch “suspicious activity,” keep you scrolling, serve you weirdly accurate ads, and track your every move. But when a regular user gets wrongly locked out? Suddenly their system is totally helpless, faceless, and impossible to reach.

It’s hard not to feel like there are two versions of support. If you’re a brand, an advertiser, an influencer, a celebrity, or someone big enough to make noise—sure, someone at Meta might actually pay attention. But if you’re just a normal person with a normal account? You’re at the mercy of bots that can punish you, shut you out, and ignore you without any consequences.

I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for basic decency. Just a reply. A review. A clear reason. One human in the chain who can look at the evidence and say, “Hey, we actually checked this.”

But instead, the message feels like: prove who you are, now prove it again, now wait forever, and then lose access anyway.

At some point, frustration just turns into giving up. You start wondering if your account is even worth fighting for when the company behind it can’t be bothered to acknowledge you exist.

Because let’s be real—does Instagram even care about some random person?

Rediscovering the lightness and simplicity of Textpattern after years away from it. I’m pleasantly surprised that the tool is still around and was updated earlier this year. I downloaded the latest release, found a new host, and took it for a spin.

It didn’t take long for me to remember all the things I like about it. Look, I’m actually using it!

This time, I’m not going to fight it. I’m not a template designer. I’ve never been one. I’ll use it simply to write. And post pictures.