I may not always agree with him.
Sometimes he veers into “Did he really just say that?” territory. Sometimes I read his tweets and spit out my coffee. Not because I’m shocked—because I understand what he means, and I’m horrified that he’s probably right. Other times, I roll my eyes so hard I see last week.
But damn it, the man can write.
Teodoro Locsin Jr. doesn’t write like he wants your approval. He writes like he already read your rebuttal, dismissed it, and torched your blog with Latin, wit, and references to French literature you pretended to understand in college. His writing is the intellectual equivalent of a slap with a velvet glove—except he dipped the glove in vinegar and set it on fire first.
No PR Filter, No Hand-Holding
Locsin doesn’t coddle. He doesn’t simplify. He doesn’t care if your brain hurts from reading too many polysyllabic truths. He assumes you’ve read something in your life besides your neighbor’s Facebook post and AI-generated think pieces. He writes for grown-ups.
God forbid.
He’s the opposite of today’s “thought leaders”—those LinkedIn philosophers who write like they’re about to cry if their engagement drops. Locsin writes like he welcomes backlash—then prints it, frames it, and uses it to swat away idiocy.
Rage, Rhetoric, and Razor Blades
There’s nothing clean about Locsin’s style. It’s messy. It’s mean. It’s magnificent.
And it works because it’s earned.
He doesn’t rant because he’s bored. He rants because he remembers. He sees the rot under the reform, the mediocrity hidden behind metrics, the stupidity parading as strategy. He takes the national amnesia we all perform like a civic duty—and throws it back in our face.
He writes like someone who lived through the revolution… and is now watching us live through the rerun.
He Writes Like Rizal, If Rizal Had Twitter and Zero Chill
Locsin writes like truth is flammable—and he’s holding the match.
It isn’t just commentary. It’s sermon. It’s slap. It’s scorched earth.
And yes, it’s often offensive. Good. The truth should offend us more often.
In a country addicted to form over substance, to titles over timelines, to praise without proof—Locsin is the necessary pain. A Filipino voice that refuses to beg, refuses to soften, refuses to shut up.
And Me?
I may not be as good as him. But I try to be.
I try to write with teeth. With memory. With anger that thinks and thinks that hurts.
I try to write like I’m not afraid to be wrong, because silence has never saved us.
I try to write for readers who don’t need emojis to understand sarcasm and don’t need footnotes to recognize hypocrisy.
I try.
And the kicker? He also speaks well. Clear, sharp, unapologetic—just like his prose.
Me? I’m still a work in progress.
Postscript:
I may not always agree with him.
But I never ignore him.
And in this age of polished cowards and curated vapidity, that says a lot.