As I hear Elly Jackson chant “This time, baby, I’ll be bulletproof” through my 888-peso mobile phone, I nod in agreement. More often, I sing those lines with her hoping that the repetition will embed the words in my head and skin. I’ll be bulletproof. However, when I hear the barrage of words (indirectly) hurled at me, self-doubt creeps back into my skin. Will I ever be bulletproof?

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