According to the opinions of a lot of people, I am pure evil. Yes, a few more steps until I become the antichrist. A lot of stuff I do (or don't) has been regarded as despicable in general opinion. Frankly, it's come to a point wherein I no longer care. If I'm going to hell, I'm sure there are a lot of other folks down there with me.
Anyway, to the curious, I'm listing down the stuff that the general public consider evil:
1. I work for a multinational company.
Ah yes, corporate greed! I earn a decent enough living doing a decent enough job, but am accused of fueling the excesses of the capitalist pig. Furthermore, I'm in sales, which is akin to having one foot planted firmly in hell (while the other keeps you from closing the door in my face). Millions are starving because of people like me. I employ unfair efficient practices to put local companies out of business. What's worse is that I allow precious capital to flow out and into the coffers of my bosses up in the developed world.
And all this Occupy Wall Street crap isn't helping. There the people speak, condemning huge corporations and vowing to stop the global economy in its tracks. If the wheels of the world suddenly stops turning and I find myself out of a job, it's called sweet justice.
Funny though that these people use Twitter and Facebook to spread the word on their iPhones and other neat gadgets that I can't afford. It's not like some hippie couple are cranking out tablets and touchscreen phones out of their kitchen, while their neighbor powers the world wide web using a hand loom and waterwheel.
2. I take the bus or hail a cab to get to where I'm going, plus the fact that I'm saving up for a car.
Because getting from point A to B on your bicycle is the only conscientious way to go. It doesn't emit any greenhouse gas, and no environmentally exploitative measures were necessary to churn out the finite fossil fuel chugged down by a modern internal combustion engine. Most important, it's the healthy alternative.
Never mind that these people usually strap their bikes on top or behind their big-ass SUV's so they can haul it to the park to ride a couple of miles in a circle. Or that the energy expended by their bodies while biking has an equivalence in the amount of daily calories they require which puts greater strain on agricultural resources and the food processing industry, causing prices to rise.
As a disclaimer, I don't claim that a food shortage is imminent once we get everybody riding two-wheelers. I simply want these people to think about something else than bother me about the daily commute. And specially when my eyes sparkle when a Porsche 911 passes me by while crossing the street. *Sigh*
3. My porn collection.
So fine, I watch a "healthy" amount of porn. I subscribe to an industry that by nature objectifies and demeans women, secretaries, Japanese schoolgirls, nurses in short white outfits, librarians, yoga instructors, flight attendants, French maids, female police officers, lingerie models, english tutors, girls next door, cowgirls, naughty college coeds and all the other healthy, fit and fun-loving ladies out there. (I could have gone on and on... but it was getting a bit difficult to concentrate on writing)
But no matter how much porn I watch, it's not like I disrespect women nor prey on them. I have all the respect for the female of the species, and can peacefully coexist with them on a platonic level.
Besides, I've been cutting back lately, I swear!
4. I eat meat.
Alas, I am all the weaker for doing so. Unlike vegans and the like, I have a weakness for a medium rare steak and pork chops. And because of this, I have killed in order to selfishly sustain my foolhardy existence.
The fact that I get as giddy as a schoolgirl when in line at the eat all you can buffet makes me all the more sinister. Little kids and vegans cry while I baste my porkchops with catsup, and butter up the already juicy steak! Porky Pig and Mr. Moo are my victims, and that's just breakfast.
And because of this I'm fat. And people don't like us fatties, because we take up too much space and eat way too much resources. And whenever we wipe our mouths after a bite of a double cheeseburger, vegetarians get up in our faces and inform us that we should be ashamed of our butchering ways. That we should be less of ourselves and more like them. Because they're just fit and fab and perfect.
5. I don't go to church.
I don't. I'm not Christian, not Muslim, not Buddhist, not atheist either. I'm just a plain believer, content to communicate in my own way with the Lord. But of course, this doesn't sit well with the vast majority. Because I don't go to church, I'm evil and hate Him and thus I hate all the world that He created. My church-less Sundays are spent aborting fetuses, lambasting beggars, stealing candy from babies and spitting in the faces of orphans. Oh yes, and I run over cute little puppies and kittens in my spare time.
I don't do any of those things in the last sentence of the preceding paragraph, by the way.
6. I love to put my feet up and relax on the couch.
During my brief siesta spent dreaming about burgers and the girl next door, people claim I should put more effort in making this world a better place. There's always a peace rally to go to, orphans to feed, houses and shelters to build and kittens to adopt. My laziness is directly impeding any progress that could benefit the world. We are stuck in this quagmire because I chose not to do anything.
So people try to make me become more productive. Work harder, give more, have more patience and voice out my opinions for the general good louder. But I don't do as much, I intentionally try to enjoy time for myself. Maybe even catch a few minutes of porn while I'm at it. You can imagine how that doesn't sit too well with the kittens.
7. I smoke and drink alcohol.
Because it is one of the things I enjoy, and calms me, and gives me something to do while thinking. Of course, other people have their own interpretation. While standing in the smoking area, having a stick, some people think I intentionally do this so I could blow smoke in their faces. Like I'm boasting about my right to kill myself if I want to, and taking them down with me in the process via second hand smoke. When people walk up to me while I'm enjoying a drag whilst IN a smoking area to tell me that I should extinguish it, I don't get why they just don't get on with their lives across on their no-smoking side of the parking area and leave me be.
For their information, I didn't intentionally light up to inconvenience them. In fact, I consider myself a considerate enough smoker. I don't smoke when there are lots of people around, and I consciously steer clear of any non-smokers. I even always carry a tictac with me so they won't think ill of my ashtray breath when I have to talk to them. So I don't get why they celebrate when I'm forced to stub out my Marlboro because I'm entering a public space or an enclosed area. My health is my own problem, and when you want to talk to me during my cigarette break responsibly spent in the properly designated smoking area, please just call me on my cell.
*****
And so to all you self-righteous folks out there, I guess I'm going to hell. Too bad though, if I only put a little more effort into it, I might be nominated as a real bad-ass antichrist.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
All I want for Christmas...
Because it's almost Christmas, I'm making a list of the things I want:
1. New threads and shoes for the office.
Yeah, I'm tired of rotating my limited wardrobe. There are only about 7 shirts that I wear with 2 pairs of pants. Heck, my friend's dog has more stuff to wear than I do.
2. An Escalade.
Sometimes, I do tire of taking the bus. On rainy days and on sunny ones. Heck, there are only 2 seasons in this country and apparently commuting is a hassle on both. Maybe an Escalade is over the top, but hopefully with such a lofty target I might end up getting a 2nd hand Hyundai. Beats the bus for sure.
3. A new sofa.
Lately, I've been sleeping on the couch. I find that this little trick enables me to wake up faster. Trouble is the couch is a bit too small that I can't really stretch myself out. Then again, maybe if I get a better couch, I fall back into not waking up as fast. But if it's gonna make the living room look better, what the hell...
4. A better mousetrap.
Surely everyone can appreciate this one.
5. A bigger apartment.
Not that I need one, but I've always wanted a bigger pad. Something like the enormous space Tom Hanks had in the movie "Big". I've always wanted to have enough space for a bowling alley someday, plus I can do all my jogging indoors, too.
6. A ginormous LCD television.
Porn will never be the same once I get my hands on one of those babies!
7. A yacht.
I've always wanted to use the words 'starboard' and 'anchors away'. Plus I hear these toys are virtually irresistible to models. I already have my camera, you know...
8. A real kitchen, with the cast iron skillets and all.
Hmm, this must have a lot to do with the food channel if you ask me.
9. A self-cleaning mop.
There are few things more irritating that having to clean a mop. For one thing, it's been busy cleaning up the things you didn't want to get your hands on so why the heck would I want to touch it now? Mickey had it spot on in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" or whatever flick that was.
10. A pet hamster.
Okay, this little bugger's been on my list for ages. But I'm just not sure I can handle all that responsibility yet.
*****
I had really something witty and grand to end this with... but now I'm sleepy and forgot what the heck it was supposed to be. My fault, each time I listed down one of the wishes above I took a lot of time imagining that I already had it and daydreamed about what I was gonna do.
Oh well, there's always next year.
1. New threads and shoes for the office.
Yeah, I'm tired of rotating my limited wardrobe. There are only about 7 shirts that I wear with 2 pairs of pants. Heck, my friend's dog has more stuff to wear than I do.
2. An Escalade.
Sometimes, I do tire of taking the bus. On rainy days and on sunny ones. Heck, there are only 2 seasons in this country and apparently commuting is a hassle on both. Maybe an Escalade is over the top, but hopefully with such a lofty target I might end up getting a 2nd hand Hyundai. Beats the bus for sure.
3. A new sofa.
Lately, I've been sleeping on the couch. I find that this little trick enables me to wake up faster. Trouble is the couch is a bit too small that I can't really stretch myself out. Then again, maybe if I get a better couch, I fall back into not waking up as fast. But if it's gonna make the living room look better, what the hell...
4. A better mousetrap.
Surely everyone can appreciate this one.
5. A bigger apartment.
Not that I need one, but I've always wanted a bigger pad. Something like the enormous space Tom Hanks had in the movie "Big". I've always wanted to have enough space for a bowling alley someday, plus I can do all my jogging indoors, too.
6. A ginormous LCD television.
Porn will never be the same once I get my hands on one of those babies!
7. A yacht.
I've always wanted to use the words 'starboard' and 'anchors away'. Plus I hear these toys are virtually irresistible to models. I already have my camera, you know...
8. A real kitchen, with the cast iron skillets and all.
Hmm, this must have a lot to do with the food channel if you ask me.
9. A self-cleaning mop.
There are few things more irritating that having to clean a mop. For one thing, it's been busy cleaning up the things you didn't want to get your hands on so why the heck would I want to touch it now? Mickey had it spot on in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" or whatever flick that was.
10. A pet hamster.
Okay, this little bugger's been on my list for ages. But I'm just not sure I can handle all that responsibility yet.
*****
I had really something witty and grand to end this with... but now I'm sleepy and forgot what the heck it was supposed to be. My fault, each time I listed down one of the wishes above I took a lot of time imagining that I already had it and daydreamed about what I was gonna do.
Oh well, there's always next year.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Gracias, Senor Tequila.
A couple of nights ago, I found myself staring down into the toilet at what was left of the burger I had for dinner. My gut was heaving but nothing came out, and as reached up to rise to the sink, I expected to see my 19 year old self appear in the mirror. Nope, there I was, still making a mess of myself 15 years later.
Admittedly, it kinda felt stupid.
I thought I was past all this, that I've matured enough to know when enough was enough. And most especially the fact that tequila was, is, and will always be my most sworn enemy. I was almost ashamed to open the door and walk back to the party. But then again, the loud knocking at the door told me to get my ass out of there. Fine, let me just flush that burger down the toilet...
*****
Despite the tattered memory, the badass hangover, the taste of bile in my mouth and a wasted Sunday, Saturday night's party was a blast! (From the bits and pieces of what I remember from it anyway) And I needed it, badly.
For a time, I was feeling a bit tired of the whole "routine". The waking up, working, household chores, a bit of television and the sleeping. It got to the point that even the weekends were governed by a compelling need to fill a schedule and put things in an certain order. Little did I realize until now that I wasn't living the life, rather life was having its way with me. To use a metaphor, I was letting the bus take me where it wanted to go rather than me using the bus to get to where I was supposed to be. (Okay bad metaphor, I might still be a bit hung over)
Right then, with my head down looking at the toilet water and the alcohol-laden contents of my stomach, I realized that I had to take control over my life again. Somehow I let some bus driver hypnotize me with some on-board movie while he took the controls.
*****
Before jumping to any conclusions, no I'm not quitting my job to hop on some Eat, Pray, Love mission. Nor will I embrace the life of a party-boy. And most importantly I won't be going to the opera or watch a play to 'experience culture'. It's just a minor adjustment to my world view, a fine-tuning to how I make everyday decisions.
For instance, when ordering take-out why not pick out something that I've never tried before rather than the usual? Why wait 2 days before calling a girl to ask her out? Or think up excuses why I shouldn't get out of the house on a sunny Saturday morning. For a time, I've let what I thought I should be doing get in the way of what I really wanted to do or to become.
Yesterday, while nursing a giant hangover, I realized that I have been doing some of those things little by little. In the past couple of weeks, I've been using my college acquaintances and contacts to add to my professional network. This used to be taboo for me, because I believed I could do it on my own lest someone accuse me of being a user. So far, no one's been thinking that and as it turns out I have actually helped out as much as they've assisted me. The past month I've also adjusted my attitude with my subordinates at work, from trying to be everybody's friendly boss to letting them know that I'm not going to do their job for them. On the home front, instead of torturing myself in trying to fit everything in place, I threw a lot of stuff I didn't really need out.
These little things, though I didn't realize it at the time, felt so liberating.
*****
Funny how a dose of stupidity can knock some sense into a person. In my case, it's taught me that instead of all the posturing and imagery, what I should really be concentrating on is being my own person once again. Just like that 19 year old who didn't know any better but was just wise enough to know what the more important things in life were.
"It is only with the heart that one can see clearly. What is essential is invisible to the eye." - The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Admittedly, it kinda felt stupid.
I thought I was past all this, that I've matured enough to know when enough was enough. And most especially the fact that tequila was, is, and will always be my most sworn enemy. I was almost ashamed to open the door and walk back to the party. But then again, the loud knocking at the door told me to get my ass out of there. Fine, let me just flush that burger down the toilet...
*****
Despite the tattered memory, the badass hangover, the taste of bile in my mouth and a wasted Sunday, Saturday night's party was a blast! (From the bits and pieces of what I remember from it anyway) And I needed it, badly.
For a time, I was feeling a bit tired of the whole "routine". The waking up, working, household chores, a bit of television and the sleeping. It got to the point that even the weekends were governed by a compelling need to fill a schedule and put things in an certain order. Little did I realize until now that I wasn't living the life, rather life was having its way with me. To use a metaphor, I was letting the bus take me where it wanted to go rather than me using the bus to get to where I was supposed to be. (Okay bad metaphor, I might still be a bit hung over)
Right then, with my head down looking at the toilet water and the alcohol-laden contents of my stomach, I realized that I had to take control over my life again. Somehow I let some bus driver hypnotize me with some on-board movie while he took the controls.
*****
Before jumping to any conclusions, no I'm not quitting my job to hop on some Eat, Pray, Love mission. Nor will I embrace the life of a party-boy. And most importantly I won't be going to the opera or watch a play to 'experience culture'. It's just a minor adjustment to my world view, a fine-tuning to how I make everyday decisions.
For instance, when ordering take-out why not pick out something that I've never tried before rather than the usual? Why wait 2 days before calling a girl to ask her out? Or think up excuses why I shouldn't get out of the house on a sunny Saturday morning. For a time, I've let what I thought I should be doing get in the way of what I really wanted to do or to become.
Yesterday, while nursing a giant hangover, I realized that I have been doing some of those things little by little. In the past couple of weeks, I've been using my college acquaintances and contacts to add to my professional network. This used to be taboo for me, because I believed I could do it on my own lest someone accuse me of being a user. So far, no one's been thinking that and as it turns out I have actually helped out as much as they've assisted me. The past month I've also adjusted my attitude with my subordinates at work, from trying to be everybody's friendly boss to letting them know that I'm not going to do their job for them. On the home front, instead of torturing myself in trying to fit everything in place, I threw a lot of stuff I didn't really need out.
These little things, though I didn't realize it at the time, felt so liberating.
*****
Funny how a dose of stupidity can knock some sense into a person. In my case, it's taught me that instead of all the posturing and imagery, what I should really be concentrating on is being my own person once again. Just like that 19 year old who didn't know any better but was just wise enough to know what the more important things in life were.
"It is only with the heart that one can see clearly. What is essential is invisible to the eye." - The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Selling short
And suddenly I'm on a roll? After more than a month of absence I'm churning out another post so soon? No, this isn't boredom. I got inspired all of a sudden by a friend's facebook status... and it wasn't even about porn.
*****
I went to an elite university for college. By elite, I mean that it's one of those schools where almost everyone wants to get in but only a select few manage to squeeze through. So imagine what an ego boost it was for me to have been one of the luckier ones. I must be a goddam genius! Or maybe I was awfully lucky during the entrance exams, considering that it was multiple choice and I happened to have my lucky marker at the ready. At any rate, that was probably the last time I ever thought of myself as being gifted with a superior intellect. It all went downhill, really really downhill, like a cliff, from thereon.
Anyway, let's fast forward to today. I open facebook looking for hot girls (which is one good reason to have a facebook account, by the way) when I chanced upon my first college crush.
Her status: "Early morning first day of school. Cold and still dark out. Making pancakes for breakfast & ******'s baon. Welcome to my world."
To the untrained eye, it sounds like a rant (hmm, untrained ear might have been more accurate - this is confusing for me). She sounds miserable and likely to sear her face down on the hot flat pan and drown herself in maple syrup. A desperate housewife about to explode. But I assure you, this is not the case.
To explain, let's go back to the good old college freshman years, when I was invincible and mighty and listened to grunge music because it was the "in" thing. There was this girl, nerdy-like, a bit on the plain side for the rest of the guys, but I was hooked. It was one of those weird circumstances where you spent the whole time in class wondering what she would in all probability order on our first date. That date would never happen. It was a potent combination of me being extremely insecure around the opposite sex and her being, well, awesome.
But all was not lost for the shy, bumbling 17-year old me. Technology gave me an opportunity to work around my bashfulness. What I could not say to her face, I was able to communicate through the wonder that is the telephone. I'd call her on weekends, and we'd talk. Nothing heavy, of course, mostly light chit-chat that never really headed anywhere. Kinda like this blog.
That went on for a year, but midway through I realized that there was little chance that it would progress to an actual date. The reason I forget, it was a long time ago, but there wasn't any bitterness at all. I can't recall most of what we talked about, but one particular conversation struck me that I have never forgotten it until this very day.
It was a sunny afternoon, I was lying on my back on the floor while on the phone with her. Hi's and Hello's worked their way into the usual light chatter. And then she let out a bomb: "Aren't you worried that you're failing Math?"
Curiously, at that particular point in time I didn't realize that I was failing Algebra and Trigonometry. I didn't mind my test scores, though I knew they were low. What a total bitch!
"Huh? Who said I was failing?"
"I saw your test scores. You haven't passed a single exam yet."
"Well, they're pretty close to passing anyway. I can still make up for it in the finals."
"You sure?" Okay, this bitch was getting on my nerves now.
"Of course I'm sure."
"Okay. I just don't get how you're still complacent. I can't stand the feeling of me getting low grades."
So she's not a bitch. She's the sweetest little thing in the universe as far as I was concerned! So she knows my scores, and notices how calm and collected I am despite of it. (In reality though, I was too dumb to notice that I was failing)
"Don't worry. I'm not."
"What do you think you'll be after we graduate?" How sweet of her to assume I would actually graduate! Isn't she a dear?
"I dunno, I haven't thought about it yet." What a fucking loser. "And you, what do you want to be when you graduate?"
"I want to have a family. Take care of my kids, my husband. Be a housewife."
"A housewife? Aren't you going to work?"
"I will, for a few years."
"Wait, aren't you selling yourself short here? I mean, you're at the top of our class!"
"No I'm not. I just study harder that the others."
"That's part of the point. Why work hard when..."
"When?" She cut me off... thank goodness.
"I mean, you could be anything you want to be, and you're going to quit one day to stay at home?"
"I don't know, I can't really picture myself not being at home. I love being part of a family. Someday, I want to have my own as well."
"You could do that and have a career, you know."
"I don't think I can."
That thought kept bugging me for a time. It was like knowing Einstein not coming up with the Theory of Relativity because he wanted to play catch with his dog all day. Or Stan Lee thinking up all these crazy superheroes and not writing comic books to do his laundry, or Jack Kennedy not boinking Marilyn Monroe because he had to sign some peace treaty or something that would end the cold war. Wasn't it Uncle Ben who said "With great power comes great responsibility"? Here was someone who consciously excelled in an elite university that most people only dream of attending, and she wants to sell herself short someday.
Me? No one would probably give a rat's ass. At 17, I still had trouble adding fractions. But this girl, top of her class, cute as hell, and able to make butterflies suddenly appear in my stupid teenage stomach, wanted to make pancakes for breakfast and iron her husband's slacks on weekends?
Life went on after that conversation. She graduated with honors, I took my sweet time and needed 4 more years to fulfill her prophecy. I sort of lost track of her amid all the parties, the booze and the hangovers. Just recently I got a chance to check up on her through facebook. She's got her own family now, still working but doting on her little ones.
She rarely posts anything on her facebook status, but this one that I chanced upon made me smile. She made it! It also made me realize that to become 'something', you've got to know what you really want out of yourself first. I guess I'll have to keep working on that. Hopefully someday, I'll also be able to sell myself short.
*****
I went to an elite university for college. By elite, I mean that it's one of those schools where almost everyone wants to get in but only a select few manage to squeeze through. So imagine what an ego boost it was for me to have been one of the luckier ones. I must be a goddam genius! Or maybe I was awfully lucky during the entrance exams, considering that it was multiple choice and I happened to have my lucky marker at the ready. At any rate, that was probably the last time I ever thought of myself as being gifted with a superior intellect. It all went downhill, really really downhill, like a cliff, from thereon.
Anyway, let's fast forward to today. I open facebook looking for hot girls (which is one good reason to have a facebook account, by the way) when I chanced upon my first college crush.
Her status: "Early morning first day of school. Cold and still dark out. Making pancakes for breakfast & ******'s baon. Welcome to my world."
To the untrained eye, it sounds like a rant (hmm, untrained ear might have been more accurate - this is confusing for me). She sounds miserable and likely to sear her face down on the hot flat pan and drown herself in maple syrup. A desperate housewife about to explode. But I assure you, this is not the case.
To explain, let's go back to the good old college freshman years, when I was invincible and mighty and listened to grunge music because it was the "in" thing. There was this girl, nerdy-like, a bit on the plain side for the rest of the guys, but I was hooked. It was one of those weird circumstances where you spent the whole time in class wondering what she would in all probability order on our first date. That date would never happen. It was a potent combination of me being extremely insecure around the opposite sex and her being, well, awesome.
But all was not lost for the shy, bumbling 17-year old me. Technology gave me an opportunity to work around my bashfulness. What I could not say to her face, I was able to communicate through the wonder that is the telephone. I'd call her on weekends, and we'd talk. Nothing heavy, of course, mostly light chit-chat that never really headed anywhere. Kinda like this blog.
That went on for a year, but midway through I realized that there was little chance that it would progress to an actual date. The reason I forget, it was a long time ago, but there wasn't any bitterness at all. I can't recall most of what we talked about, but one particular conversation struck me that I have never forgotten it until this very day.
It was a sunny afternoon, I was lying on my back on the floor while on the phone with her. Hi's and Hello's worked their way into the usual light chatter. And then she let out a bomb: "Aren't you worried that you're failing Math?"
Curiously, at that particular point in time I didn't realize that I was failing Algebra and Trigonometry. I didn't mind my test scores, though I knew they were low. What a total bitch!
"Huh? Who said I was failing?"
"I saw your test scores. You haven't passed a single exam yet."
"Well, they're pretty close to passing anyway. I can still make up for it in the finals."
"You sure?" Okay, this bitch was getting on my nerves now.
"Of course I'm sure."
"Okay. I just don't get how you're still complacent. I can't stand the feeling of me getting low grades."
So she's not a bitch. She's the sweetest little thing in the universe as far as I was concerned! So she knows my scores, and notices how calm and collected I am despite of it. (In reality though, I was too dumb to notice that I was failing)
"Don't worry. I'm not."
"What do you think you'll be after we graduate?" How sweet of her to assume I would actually graduate! Isn't she a dear?
"I dunno, I haven't thought about it yet." What a fucking loser. "And you, what do you want to be when you graduate?"
"I want to have a family. Take care of my kids, my husband. Be a housewife."
"A housewife? Aren't you going to work?"
"I will, for a few years."
"Wait, aren't you selling yourself short here? I mean, you're at the top of our class!"
"No I'm not. I just study harder that the others."
"That's part of the point. Why work hard when..."
"When?" She cut me off... thank goodness.
"I mean, you could be anything you want to be, and you're going to quit one day to stay at home?"
"I don't know, I can't really picture myself not being at home. I love being part of a family. Someday, I want to have my own as well."
"You could do that and have a career, you know."
"I don't think I can."
That thought kept bugging me for a time. It was like knowing Einstein not coming up with the Theory of Relativity because he wanted to play catch with his dog all day. Or Stan Lee thinking up all these crazy superheroes and not writing comic books to do his laundry, or Jack Kennedy not boinking Marilyn Monroe because he had to sign some peace treaty or something that would end the cold war. Wasn't it Uncle Ben who said "With great power comes great responsibility"? Here was someone who consciously excelled in an elite university that most people only dream of attending, and she wants to sell herself short someday.
Me? No one would probably give a rat's ass. At 17, I still had trouble adding fractions. But this girl, top of her class, cute as hell, and able to make butterflies suddenly appear in my stupid teenage stomach, wanted to make pancakes for breakfast and iron her husband's slacks on weekends?
Life went on after that conversation. She graduated with honors, I took my sweet time and needed 4 more years to fulfill her prophecy. I sort of lost track of her amid all the parties, the booze and the hangovers. Just recently I got a chance to check up on her through facebook. She's got her own family now, still working but doting on her little ones.
She rarely posts anything on her facebook status, but this one that I chanced upon made me smile. She made it! It also made me realize that to become 'something', you've got to know what you really want out of yourself first. I guess I'll have to keep working on that. Hopefully someday, I'll also be able to sell myself short.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Hold the Viagra...
Writing's becoming a chore these days. Yeah, that's the excuse I'm giving for being too lazy to publish any posts recently. Sure there were days past when I'd be shooting off multiple posts a day, but I'm getting old I guess and these bursts come few and far between now. It's entirely possible that I could wolf down whatever is the literary equivalent of viagra to move things along, but why bother? If I don't wanna write, I don't need to, right? This is my blog, and I'll be as selfish as I want to be with it. It isn't like I'm getting paid for it, nor will I get a Pulitzer for my efforts.
To be fair though, there is a certain satisfaction that I get when people read my stuff. It's a boost to any writer's ego, so when I do write stuff up I enjoy people reading it. Thanks guys, for putting up with the load of crap I've rammed down your throats all these years.
*****
Some of you may be wondering how work has been for me these past few months.(Or at least I pretend that some of you give a hoot) Well, things are alright. Nothing spectacular, I haven't saved the world yet, but it's okay. For the most part, I'm learning to regulate how much work I'm actually able to take in. The early months have been an education on the phrase "biting off more than you can chew". So I've vomited a chunk of the excess and now am concentrating on getting the rest of it down. Understand that with my former place of employment, this wasn't a problem simply because there were less responsibilities. With the free rein I now have with my job, I feel like I've just gotten out of college desperate to lay my claim on the world.
Another thing that I've learned (or in this case re-learned) with my current job is the merits of taking public transportation. For loose change, I'm able to sit smugly in my seat and let the bus driver worry about the heavy traffic on Wednesday and Friday nights. And parking is the least of my worries when going out, so I can choose wherever bar or hangout I wish to go to without having to factor in the amount of parking space available. Of course, people watching is always a plus. Whenever anyone gets on or off, I mentally profile them. Their jobs, how old they are, is that guy gonna mug me tonight, did she get a good enough education, are they dating or just friends... you get the idea. Riding the bus along with the mainstream of society sharpens my people-judgement skills in a way.
Inside the office, I'm also learning with how to deal with people who are smarter than I am and yet are unable to understand what is expected of them. Not their fault, these guys were trained to work within the normal parameters of the corporate life, thus a weaker inclination think outside of the box. Wait, I'm not saying that's wrong, just that they are afraid to take risks or get their hands dirty. Me, I don't like playing things safe, that's no fun at all. One thing I do realize is that I need to figure out a way to be able to connect with these people so that they not only "get" what I'm driving at, but to also appreciate the benefits of risk taking every once in a while.
More on that in the future, I suppose. I don't really feel like talking about work just now.
*****
But what do I want to talk about? As usual, I don't know. I just felt the urge to tap on the keyboard tonight and this is what's coming out.
*****
Slightly tangential to the work thing, I've been overhearing stuff about money, how they feel they deserve more than they are actually getting. While this may have quite a lot of merit to it, the reality is that you will never really get as much as you deserve. That's just business. If you and every one else in a company are able to get as much as what you think you deserve, nine out of ten that company's going bust pretty soon.
I've always held the opinion that if you don't like the pay, then you can always quit and get another job. If you can't get another job that pays better than what you have now, then the problem lies with you, doesn't it? Of course, there will always be cases where the difference between what you think you should be making and what you are actually getting is humongous. If that's the case, (assuming you're correct in your computations) then I don't think you'd have any problems getting another job with a more justified compensation.
My point: stop whining and do something than just yakking your head off at the water cooler. Either quit or work harder to merit a raise.
To be fair though, there is a certain satisfaction that I get when people read my stuff. It's a boost to any writer's ego, so when I do write stuff up I enjoy people reading it. Thanks guys, for putting up with the load of crap I've rammed down your throats all these years.
*****
Some of you may be wondering how work has been for me these past few months.(Or at least I pretend that some of you give a hoot) Well, things are alright. Nothing spectacular, I haven't saved the world yet, but it's okay. For the most part, I'm learning to regulate how much work I'm actually able to take in. The early months have been an education on the phrase "biting off more than you can chew". So I've vomited a chunk of the excess and now am concentrating on getting the rest of it down. Understand that with my former place of employment, this wasn't a problem simply because there were less responsibilities. With the free rein I now have with my job, I feel like I've just gotten out of college desperate to lay my claim on the world.
Another thing that I've learned (or in this case re-learned) with my current job is the merits of taking public transportation. For loose change, I'm able to sit smugly in my seat and let the bus driver worry about the heavy traffic on Wednesday and Friday nights. And parking is the least of my worries when going out, so I can choose wherever bar or hangout I wish to go to without having to factor in the amount of parking space available. Of course, people watching is always a plus. Whenever anyone gets on or off, I mentally profile them. Their jobs, how old they are, is that guy gonna mug me tonight, did she get a good enough education, are they dating or just friends... you get the idea. Riding the bus along with the mainstream of society sharpens my people-judgement skills in a way.
Inside the office, I'm also learning with how to deal with people who are smarter than I am and yet are unable to understand what is expected of them. Not their fault, these guys were trained to work within the normal parameters of the corporate life, thus a weaker inclination think outside of the box. Wait, I'm not saying that's wrong, just that they are afraid to take risks or get their hands dirty. Me, I don't like playing things safe, that's no fun at all. One thing I do realize is that I need to figure out a way to be able to connect with these people so that they not only "get" what I'm driving at, but to also appreciate the benefits of risk taking every once in a while.
More on that in the future, I suppose. I don't really feel like talking about work just now.
*****
But what do I want to talk about? As usual, I don't know. I just felt the urge to tap on the keyboard tonight and this is what's coming out.
*****
Slightly tangential to the work thing, I've been overhearing stuff about money, how they feel they deserve more than they are actually getting. While this may have quite a lot of merit to it, the reality is that you will never really get as much as you deserve. That's just business. If you and every one else in a company are able to get as much as what you think you deserve, nine out of ten that company's going bust pretty soon.
I've always held the opinion that if you don't like the pay, then you can always quit and get another job. If you can't get another job that pays better than what you have now, then the problem lies with you, doesn't it? Of course, there will always be cases where the difference between what you think you should be making and what you are actually getting is humongous. If that's the case, (assuming you're correct in your computations) then I don't think you'd have any problems getting another job with a more justified compensation.
My point: stop whining and do something than just yakking your head off at the water cooler. Either quit or work harder to merit a raise.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
A 6 month affair
I'm supposed to be working, playing catch up to the myriad tasks that I'm supposed to prepare for. It is a Monday tomorrow, the busiest day of the week. But I just can't pass up on this time to write. It's been a while, after all, and there is just no saying no to this little journal of sorts that I've been sharing.
*****
So this coming Thursday, I'd have been working for my new bosses for exactly 6 months. To tell you the truth, it doesn't feel like 6 months, it feels more like 6 years now. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, but definitely it's been enough time lapsed for me to look back and assess where I've been and where I'm going to.
6 months ago, I had no idea what the future held for me. I was on vacation in a foreign land, looking out the window into the freezing cold ether, cigarette in hand and a tiny whisky bottle by my side. I had just ended an 8-year relationship with my old job, and admittedly, I was scared shitless. Funny how I viewed my old job as a relationship, throughout all the frustrations and pressure and abject poverty, I loved that job. My moving on had nothing to do with hate nor indifference, just the realization that there was a bigger world out there, and that I wanted to be a part of it. Selfish, ambitious prick that I am.
The new job, or relationship, proved to be a giant leap in a totally different direction. After ditching the small town girl next door, I found myself in the arms of a career woman who took no shit from anybody. This wasn't Kansas anymore, welcome to the real world of players, hustlers and sharks. Didn't I say I wanted to be a part of the bigger ocean? Well, I definitely came to the right place!
In no time, I found myself overextended and entertaining feelings of inadequacy. There was no place for sugar-coating and excuses, and no points for trying, either. Either deliver or go home. So I was doing everything and anything, holding on to apron strings for dear friggin' life. After 2 months, my boss resigned, apparently seeking a slower pace. So I was left to my own devices, somewhere between limbo and f*cked.
It was somewhere at this point, in the middle of inhaling 2 packs of cigarettes a day, that I realized I was actually in a great position. Not everyone gets an opportunity to go from being a cog in a small family-owned company to getting first crack to carve out his own place in a global corporation. I was serendipitously caught at the right place at the right time, with fairly equal chances of success and doom. I liked my chances.
That was 3 months ago, so far I haven't gone that far in my quest. There are just too many brick walls that need to be hurdled. But I haven't thrown in the towel just yet.
Well, my impossibly insatiable mistress awaits. I'll let you know what happens in the next few days, but whatever the case I can safely say that I learned more in the past 6 months than all those 8 past years. Hopefully the learning continues, because there's a heck of a lot more out there.
*****
So this coming Thursday, I'd have been working for my new bosses for exactly 6 months. To tell you the truth, it doesn't feel like 6 months, it feels more like 6 years now. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, but definitely it's been enough time lapsed for me to look back and assess where I've been and where I'm going to.
6 months ago, I had no idea what the future held for me. I was on vacation in a foreign land, looking out the window into the freezing cold ether, cigarette in hand and a tiny whisky bottle by my side. I had just ended an 8-year relationship with my old job, and admittedly, I was scared shitless. Funny how I viewed my old job as a relationship, throughout all the frustrations and pressure and abject poverty, I loved that job. My moving on had nothing to do with hate nor indifference, just the realization that there was a bigger world out there, and that I wanted to be a part of it. Selfish, ambitious prick that I am.
The new job, or relationship, proved to be a giant leap in a totally different direction. After ditching the small town girl next door, I found myself in the arms of a career woman who took no shit from anybody. This wasn't Kansas anymore, welcome to the real world of players, hustlers and sharks. Didn't I say I wanted to be a part of the bigger ocean? Well, I definitely came to the right place!
In no time, I found myself overextended and entertaining feelings of inadequacy. There was no place for sugar-coating and excuses, and no points for trying, either. Either deliver or go home. So I was doing everything and anything, holding on to apron strings for dear friggin' life. After 2 months, my boss resigned, apparently seeking a slower pace. So I was left to my own devices, somewhere between limbo and f*cked.
It was somewhere at this point, in the middle of inhaling 2 packs of cigarettes a day, that I realized I was actually in a great position. Not everyone gets an opportunity to go from being a cog in a small family-owned company to getting first crack to carve out his own place in a global corporation. I was serendipitously caught at the right place at the right time, with fairly equal chances of success and doom. I liked my chances.
That was 3 months ago, so far I haven't gone that far in my quest. There are just too many brick walls that need to be hurdled. But I haven't thrown in the towel just yet.
Well, my impossibly insatiable mistress awaits. I'll let you know what happens in the next few days, but whatever the case I can safely say that I learned more in the past 6 months than all those 8 past years. Hopefully the learning continues, because there's a heck of a lot more out there.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Petrol-headed
This afternoon, after a meeting that lasted over 5 hours I realized that after the brain is tapped out, there's pretty little use for it. For the life of me, there was no getting back in the groove. All brain activity that was left could only command my hand to bring the pizza to my mouth and it in turn to chew and swallow. So in the office, I was reduced to mundane work, like stapling my receipts and doodling boobs all over my notebook. Takes me back to my days in college (except I didn't have a notebook then, only the hard wooden surface of my desk).
I should have just left, went home and recharged. But the sun was out, and it was hot as hell. Taking advantage of the office's free airconditioning wasn't a bad thing at all. Plus there was pizza, so I stayed put.
Then the familiar urge hit me, so I braved the hot and humid Manila air and choked myself on some cancer sticks outside the building. To amuse myself, I started counting cars passing me by while reconstructing the song "Counting Blue Cars" in my head. Well, tried to reconstruct it anyway, I never got past the chorus. Then the game turned into an hour of envy. There were all these cars passing by, and I wanted one of my own. Sure, cars are pretty impractical most of the time, specially when you live a short and convenient commute from the office. But I wanted one, if only to be able to escape the drudgery of my boring existence.
Okay, so if I was to buy a car, what should I get? Ahh, there's that debate again, the one I've been having with myself since I've decided to save up for one. Brand new or second hand? Japanese or Korean? (American and European models are just way off my budget, sadly) Smart car or bad ass SUV? This is just one of those choices where you know whichever one you pick, you'll be picking the wrong one. Fortunately, I don't have to torture myself in the short term so I stub out my cigarette, light up another one and move on.
Hypothetically, let's say I buy a car this morning. Where do I go? Home, of course is the last place you're going to think of. The day you get your first car, your mind goes nuts and you become that reckless teenager once again about to squander your life's savings on your first lap dance. This is one of those milestones in a man's life, the first bottle of beer, the first time you see an actual boob, bases 1 through 4, and I'm told the birth of your first child. You just can't let these moments go to waste.
So where to? With whom, or should I go solo? Do I bottle up a sample of that new car air? Should I head to the beach or the mountains? How long should I wait before I allow myself to fart inside the car? Obviously, these big decisions have to be made. I just hope I'll be ready with my answer when that time comes.
Last weekend, I actually got to driving again. It might have felt good, if only I was sober enough to enjoy it. It was 5 in the morning, I just sobered up but was sort of still out of it. I was too concentrated on the road than on the feel of the pedals and wheels. What a waste.
So I guess I miss driving, having the power to decide your own fate and the direction you're headed to. And as I was standing there finishing up my last stick of cigarette, I hated all those drivers passing by, taunting me with the smell of their fumes and the sweet sound of an internal combustion engine. While I sit in the bus, pre-destined to take a certain route, these guys can decide which road to take, to stop and take a leak when they felt like it, to brake just a tad harder than necessary just because.
Just before I stubbed out the last embers, a guy in a tiny Hyundai drives up the garage and guns the engine one last time before cutting it off. He was car number 203, the bastard.
I should have just left, went home and recharged. But the sun was out, and it was hot as hell. Taking advantage of the office's free airconditioning wasn't a bad thing at all. Plus there was pizza, so I stayed put.
Then the familiar urge hit me, so I braved the hot and humid Manila air and choked myself on some cancer sticks outside the building. To amuse myself, I started counting cars passing me by while reconstructing the song "Counting Blue Cars" in my head. Well, tried to reconstruct it anyway, I never got past the chorus. Then the game turned into an hour of envy. There were all these cars passing by, and I wanted one of my own. Sure, cars are pretty impractical most of the time, specially when you live a short and convenient commute from the office. But I wanted one, if only to be able to escape the drudgery of my boring existence.
Okay, so if I was to buy a car, what should I get? Ahh, there's that debate again, the one I've been having with myself since I've decided to save up for one. Brand new or second hand? Japanese or Korean? (American and European models are just way off my budget, sadly) Smart car or bad ass SUV? This is just one of those choices where you know whichever one you pick, you'll be picking the wrong one. Fortunately, I don't have to torture myself in the short term so I stub out my cigarette, light up another one and move on.
Hypothetically, let's say I buy a car this morning. Where do I go? Home, of course is the last place you're going to think of. The day you get your first car, your mind goes nuts and you become that reckless teenager once again about to squander your life's savings on your first lap dance. This is one of those milestones in a man's life, the first bottle of beer, the first time you see an actual boob, bases 1 through 4, and I'm told the birth of your first child. You just can't let these moments go to waste.
So where to? With whom, or should I go solo? Do I bottle up a sample of that new car air? Should I head to the beach or the mountains? How long should I wait before I allow myself to fart inside the car? Obviously, these big decisions have to be made. I just hope I'll be ready with my answer when that time comes.
Last weekend, I actually got to driving again. It might have felt good, if only I was sober enough to enjoy it. It was 5 in the morning, I just sobered up but was sort of still out of it. I was too concentrated on the road than on the feel of the pedals and wheels. What a waste.
So I guess I miss driving, having the power to decide your own fate and the direction you're headed to. And as I was standing there finishing up my last stick of cigarette, I hated all those drivers passing by, taunting me with the smell of their fumes and the sweet sound of an internal combustion engine. While I sit in the bus, pre-destined to take a certain route, these guys can decide which road to take, to stop and take a leak when they felt like it, to brake just a tad harder than necessary just because.
Just before I stubbed out the last embers, a guy in a tiny Hyundai drives up the garage and guns the engine one last time before cutting it off. He was car number 203, the bastard.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Distractions versus "Justin Bieber"
And wouldn't you know it, this blog seems to be getting harder and harder to write. There's just so little time left over from work and that whining mistress of mine, the laundry. And just when you thought you finally managed to free yourself from it all, your blanket greedily clutches you in its fluffy arms and drains whatever iota of consciousness you have left.
Some days, I find myself waiting to be distracted from the drudgery of it all.
And it's not just this blog that I've been neglecting, lots of other important matters are being left up in the air. Take for example the need to populate my wardrobe with more spiffy threads. Somehow, I'm still dressing up for some 90's grunge concert. Baggy pants, plaid shirts and a bad goatee. Okay, the goatee is because of the pimple that's been squatting on my chin for some time now, but the rest I owe to my laziness and superior laundry skills. Yeah, I've owned some of the shirts I've been wearing for a decade now, that's how anal I am with the wash cycle. There is hope though, I did buy a shirt some weekends ago to wear to some fancy work-related event. Never got the pants, nor the shoes, nor the tie, not even a belt that doesn't look like it's turning back into a cow. That's what happens when you leave your mom's house and live on your own, you devolve back to your inner Neanderthal.
Before any of you make any suggestions, let me explain that a distraction is entirely different from a hobby. No don't bother to look it up in the dictionary, I don't really care if I'm wrong about the definition in your world, but in MY world, as I've said, it's worlds apart. There are a lot of things that I could do in lieu of my more mundane activities. I've considered baking, jogging, painting, finishing that damn Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, pest control (okay, maybe that needs prioritizing), carpentry and all sorts of stuff. Writing about them is about as far as I've gotten to realizing any of those things. Now those are hobbies. But distractions... they're... 'distracting'? I mean they're just so darn irresistible that your brain turns to mush and you forget how dumb that fascinated look on your face is. Think about how a fat kid stares at a doughnut, or a 12 year old girl goes apeshit for Justin Bieber.
Distractions are what makes our lives more interesting.
Oh, and another thing I just thought of to differentiate a distraction from a hobby, the former is fleeting while the latter is gonna suck the life out of you. It's like having a one night stand with Britney Spears versus spending a lifetime of her going all trailer park on you. Bad analogy perhaps, but I did enjoy thinking up my imaginary one-nighter.
Beware though, as there are distractions that are quite unpleasant. These tend to make your life even more miserable than it already (surely) is. (Yes, I'm quite sure because you've got nothing better to do than read this blog, dear reader) So in MY world, the definition of the word 'distraction' is always positive. I'm calling its negative equivalent 'Justin Bieber' instead. No I'm not a hater, I just don't imagine myself uttering his name too often in my lifetime, guaranteeing a long and pleasant life ahead of me. For instance, you know those few minutes in the middle of a porno when the actors suddenly appear out of nowhere...*GASP*... FULLY DRESSED! JUSTIN FRIGGIN' BIEBER! (Oh the horror!)
I'll admit, there are some people who find their lives ruined by all sorts of distractions. Take for example the guy who got distracted by the chick in the car besides his, right before he got bashed up really bad by the oncoming truck he failed to notice. Or the prisoner who got distracted by the bar of soap which he dropped on the floor... you probably know how that always ends. That's not what I hope to happen to me, of course (specially the incident with the soap, I'd probably choose the car crash over that).
My former mentor taught me that to ensure success in life, you have to constantly remind yourself how it feels to be fulfilled. This isn't just the one thing, it may be a bunch of different stuff, but what's essential is that you have to make it a point to feel great about yourself at least once a day. For him, it was finishing his Sudoku game during breakfast. I tried it with computer chess for a month... I felt miserable losing and arriving late to the office every day for that month. Wasn't the best of ideas I've had for sure. But the principle is sound, you just have to find that something that you enjoy and you're good at, and make it fuel the day with feeling good about yourself.
Before anyone says anything, NO I WILL NOT DO YOUR LAUNDRY.
Some days, I find myself waiting to be distracted from the drudgery of it all.
And it's not just this blog that I've been neglecting, lots of other important matters are being left up in the air. Take for example the need to populate my wardrobe with more spiffy threads. Somehow, I'm still dressing up for some 90's grunge concert. Baggy pants, plaid shirts and a bad goatee. Okay, the goatee is because of the pimple that's been squatting on my chin for some time now, but the rest I owe to my laziness and superior laundry skills. Yeah, I've owned some of the shirts I've been wearing for a decade now, that's how anal I am with the wash cycle. There is hope though, I did buy a shirt some weekends ago to wear to some fancy work-related event. Never got the pants, nor the shoes, nor the tie, not even a belt that doesn't look like it's turning back into a cow. That's what happens when you leave your mom's house and live on your own, you devolve back to your inner Neanderthal.
Before any of you make any suggestions, let me explain that a distraction is entirely different from a hobby. No don't bother to look it up in the dictionary, I don't really care if I'm wrong about the definition in your world, but in MY world, as I've said, it's worlds apart. There are a lot of things that I could do in lieu of my more mundane activities. I've considered baking, jogging, painting, finishing that damn Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, pest control (okay, maybe that needs prioritizing), carpentry and all sorts of stuff. Writing about them is about as far as I've gotten to realizing any of those things. Now those are hobbies. But distractions... they're... 'distracting'? I mean they're just so darn irresistible that your brain turns to mush and you forget how dumb that fascinated look on your face is. Think about how a fat kid stares at a doughnut, or a 12 year old girl goes apeshit for Justin Bieber.
Distractions are what makes our lives more interesting.
Oh, and another thing I just thought of to differentiate a distraction from a hobby, the former is fleeting while the latter is gonna suck the life out of you. It's like having a one night stand with Britney Spears versus spending a lifetime of her going all trailer park on you. Bad analogy perhaps, but I did enjoy thinking up my imaginary one-nighter.
Beware though, as there are distractions that are quite unpleasant. These tend to make your life even more miserable than it already (surely) is. (Yes, I'm quite sure because you've got nothing better to do than read this blog, dear reader) So in MY world, the definition of the word 'distraction' is always positive. I'm calling its negative equivalent 'Justin Bieber' instead. No I'm not a hater, I just don't imagine myself uttering his name too often in my lifetime, guaranteeing a long and pleasant life ahead of me. For instance, you know those few minutes in the middle of a porno when the actors suddenly appear out of nowhere...*GASP*... FULLY DRESSED! JUSTIN FRIGGIN' BIEBER! (Oh the horror!)
I'll admit, there are some people who find their lives ruined by all sorts of distractions. Take for example the guy who got distracted by the chick in the car besides his, right before he got bashed up really bad by the oncoming truck he failed to notice. Or the prisoner who got distracted by the bar of soap which he dropped on the floor... you probably know how that always ends. That's not what I hope to happen to me, of course (specially the incident with the soap, I'd probably choose the car crash over that).
My former mentor taught me that to ensure success in life, you have to constantly remind yourself how it feels to be fulfilled. This isn't just the one thing, it may be a bunch of different stuff, but what's essential is that you have to make it a point to feel great about yourself at least once a day. For him, it was finishing his Sudoku game during breakfast. I tried it with computer chess for a month... I felt miserable losing and arriving late to the office every day for that month. Wasn't the best of ideas I've had for sure. But the principle is sound, you just have to find that something that you enjoy and you're good at, and make it fuel the day with feeling good about yourself.
Before anyone says anything, NO I WILL NOT DO YOUR LAUNDRY.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Welcome to another in my long line of under-achievements
Something has to be said about my losing streak. You see, I've been playing this PC game, Sid Meier's Civilization, off and on for almost 2 decades now. And so far, I haven't won a single time. Well that's not entirely true, I've won a number of times on the easy levels, but having your opponent playing with an arm behind his back certainly doesn't count, at least for me. The games that matter to me are those where I play at the level of the AI, because that's where the bragging rights are. Of course, there hasn't been anything to brag about yet which has been a big frustration for me.
So far, the score looks something like this: Man 0 - Computer 5,683. This sucks.
The funny thing about it is, I know I can win this stupid game. But sadly I can't seem to pull it off because I get so damn excited when I'm winning that I make careless mistakes. This is true not only on the computer, by the way. My poker game has also been witness to this meltdown. So has my billiard game. And darts. WHY THE HECK DOES THIS HAPPEN!?
Yesterday afternoon, after another frustrating game of Civ (I was a far first place, until I got cocky and decided to prolong a war with Napoleon, draining me of resources, landing me a close 2nd place in the end) I sat back and tried to get to the bottom of this phenomenon. I reached deep down into my psyche (scary shit, I tell you) and summoned my inner Freud. Turns out, I loathe winning. Something in my past has wired me this way, so that each time I get close enough to the target, I slow down and let another guy go first.
But why? What event could have triggered this?
As with all psychological investigations, I suspected my mom was behind all this. If Tony Soprano's mom could have messed him up that bad, why can't mine? I was told I was breastfed as a kid, could it be that? Is breastfeeding good for the body but bad for the psyche? Let's dismiss that thought. Thinking about my mom's boobs and writing about it here is just... wrong.
Let's move on to the next suspect, my childhood. Maybe I was raised wrong. I mean, growing up I didn't really have a knack for basketball like the other kids. So the competitivity (is that a word?) wasn't there and here I am, a broken PC gamer. I did play soccer though, as a full-back. You know, the guy in backfield who's not the kick-ass goalie? Maybe that's it... as a kid I was the guy who wasn't expected to win the game but was more likely to lose it by letting the opposing forward go by, leaving the poor goalie to fend for himself.
I did enjoy other games, though. The kind you played in your neighbor's backyard, up a tree, in the streets where all the cars and cabs and jeeps rolled by. So maybe being the useless fullback wasn't it.
Arrgh, this is so frustrating! Frustrating enough that I open grooveshark and look for "Self-Esteem" by The Offspring.
(This is the part where I load the music, get up from my seat and take a piss while singing to the tune)
And now we're back! (While I was gone - which you would probably have no idea how long for - I took the liberty of also searching for Beck's "Loser", Frank's "Send in the Clowns" and various videos of Kylie Minogue, because she's hot, and she doesn't judge me.)
While I was elsewhere, I thought of my Catholic upbringing. No, technically I'm not Catholic, but I did have 10 years worth of Catholic schooling, wherein I joined a Bible Contest, where I landed... guess where, SECOND place! But seriously, aren't Catholics bred for this kind of torture? All that guilt from all those past generations of sinners, and how humility and meekness and suffering are the ultimate tickets to those Pearly Gates (or the Dark Side, ask Yoda)? Could my frustrations actually be pre-ordained? In which case, upon my tombstone shall the words "Never won on earth, better luck in Heaven, loser!" be engraved.
At the risk of thunder and lightning coming down on my ass, I'd better stop ranting about religion. (Sorry Father, for I have sinned...)
There is another theory, though... that all this losing is borne out of my disdain for the glory of winning because of the heightened expectations. You know, take LeBron James, for instance. He's what we call a winner, MVP, the go-to-guy. And yet, when he rims out his shot we all call him a goat and boo him all the way out of the arena. I'm willing to bet that if the ball ended up in the hands of someone else, say Eddie House, in the final second with the potential game-winner, and he flubs it, he'd get a pat on the back and several "That's a tough shot for anyone...". See where I'm going with this?
Let's say that I did win at Civilization, then what next? Do I move on to other games, having to purchase more expensive titles and re-learn it? What if I did win big in poker, do I move on from house games to the casino? And if I graduated at the top of my class in grade school or high school, would my parents approve of all the drinking and going to parties, expecting me to study my ass off every day to become summa cum laude? And let's say I did do everything right in college and graduated with respectable marks, wouldn't people expect me to be some kind of wunderkind know-it-all who saves the nation's economy overnight? Man, that's just too much pressure for someone who likes his beer cold and the women hot.
Which brings me back to my hatred of Freddie Prinze Jr. Yeah, I've ranted against him some posts back explaining it. I'd post a link to it if I weren't the lazy type, tough luck for you, I guess. Anyway, guys like Freddie Prinze, Jr. (Or his characters, anyway) always have this innate need to set the bar high up, thus making us all look bad.
I know, I know, there's nothing wrong with being an achiever. But hey, nothing wrong being an under-achiever too, you know! We let them do their thing, and we'll be fine on our own devices.
Well, all this bitterness has dragged on for too long, I suppose. If you can't beat 'em, then I'll just go grab me a nice cold one and watch Kylie Minogue over-achieve herself.
So far, the score looks something like this: Man 0 - Computer 5,683. This sucks.
The funny thing about it is, I know I can win this stupid game. But sadly I can't seem to pull it off because I get so damn excited when I'm winning that I make careless mistakes. This is true not only on the computer, by the way. My poker game has also been witness to this meltdown. So has my billiard game. And darts. WHY THE HECK DOES THIS HAPPEN!?
Yesterday afternoon, after another frustrating game of Civ (I was a far first place, until I got cocky and decided to prolong a war with Napoleon, draining me of resources, landing me a close 2nd place in the end) I sat back and tried to get to the bottom of this phenomenon. I reached deep down into my psyche (scary shit, I tell you) and summoned my inner Freud. Turns out, I loathe winning. Something in my past has wired me this way, so that each time I get close enough to the target, I slow down and let another guy go first.
But why? What event could have triggered this?
As with all psychological investigations, I suspected my mom was behind all this. If Tony Soprano's mom could have messed him up that bad, why can't mine? I was told I was breastfed as a kid, could it be that? Is breastfeeding good for the body but bad for the psyche? Let's dismiss that thought. Thinking about my mom's boobs and writing about it here is just... wrong.
Let's move on to the next suspect, my childhood. Maybe I was raised wrong. I mean, growing up I didn't really have a knack for basketball like the other kids. So the competitivity (is that a word?) wasn't there and here I am, a broken PC gamer. I did play soccer though, as a full-back. You know, the guy in backfield who's not the kick-ass goalie? Maybe that's it... as a kid I was the guy who wasn't expected to win the game but was more likely to lose it by letting the opposing forward go by, leaving the poor goalie to fend for himself.
I did enjoy other games, though. The kind you played in your neighbor's backyard, up a tree, in the streets where all the cars and cabs and jeeps rolled by. So maybe being the useless fullback wasn't it.
Arrgh, this is so frustrating! Frustrating enough that I open grooveshark and look for "Self-Esteem" by The Offspring.
(This is the part where I load the music, get up from my seat and take a piss while singing to the tune)
And now we're back! (While I was gone - which you would probably have no idea how long for - I took the liberty of also searching for Beck's "Loser", Frank's "Send in the Clowns" and various videos of Kylie Minogue, because she's hot, and she doesn't judge me.)
While I was elsewhere, I thought of my Catholic upbringing. No, technically I'm not Catholic, but I did have 10 years worth of Catholic schooling, wherein I joined a Bible Contest, where I landed... guess where, SECOND place! But seriously, aren't Catholics bred for this kind of torture? All that guilt from all those past generations of sinners, and how humility and meekness and suffering are the ultimate tickets to those Pearly Gates (or the Dark Side, ask Yoda)? Could my frustrations actually be pre-ordained? In which case, upon my tombstone shall the words "Never won on earth, better luck in Heaven, loser!" be engraved.
At the risk of thunder and lightning coming down on my ass, I'd better stop ranting about religion. (Sorry Father, for I have sinned...)
There is another theory, though... that all this losing is borne out of my disdain for the glory of winning because of the heightened expectations. You know, take LeBron James, for instance. He's what we call a winner, MVP, the go-to-guy. And yet, when he rims out his shot we all call him a goat and boo him all the way out of the arena. I'm willing to bet that if the ball ended up in the hands of someone else, say Eddie House, in the final second with the potential game-winner, and he flubs it, he'd get a pat on the back and several "That's a tough shot for anyone...". See where I'm going with this?
Let's say that I did win at Civilization, then what next? Do I move on to other games, having to purchase more expensive titles and re-learn it? What if I did win big in poker, do I move on from house games to the casino? And if I graduated at the top of my class in grade school or high school, would my parents approve of all the drinking and going to parties, expecting me to study my ass off every day to become summa cum laude? And let's say I did do everything right in college and graduated with respectable marks, wouldn't people expect me to be some kind of wunderkind know-it-all who saves the nation's economy overnight? Man, that's just too much pressure for someone who likes his beer cold and the women hot.
Which brings me back to my hatred of Freddie Prinze Jr. Yeah, I've ranted against him some posts back explaining it. I'd post a link to it if I weren't the lazy type, tough luck for you, I guess. Anyway, guys like Freddie Prinze, Jr. (Or his characters, anyway) always have this innate need to set the bar high up, thus making us all look bad.
I know, I know, there's nothing wrong with being an achiever. But hey, nothing wrong being an under-achiever too, you know! We let them do their thing, and we'll be fine on our own devices.
Well, all this bitterness has dragged on for too long, I suppose. If you can't beat 'em, then I'll just go grab me a nice cold one and watch Kylie Minogue over-achieve herself.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
So you're the expert, huh?
Has anyone ever called you an expert? A specialist? Well I have, just this afternoon. Apparently, I'm an expert in "business development".
I can't believe it either.
*****
I guess you've noticed, I haven't been posting much. It's a bit difficult when you get into the office at 8 in the morning and clock out a little past 8 in the evening. Then when I get home, I open my laptop and work some more. It's exhausting, and I've been sporting raccoon eyes for the past month. This is what I've traded my old life for.
And so far, I'm loving it.
I can't seem to put my finger on it, but there's a great thrill getting home knowing that you've just worked your ass off and you're gonna be back at it again tomorrow. And shamefully, I've reached a point that I'm so darn efficient at it that people have been piling more work on me and going out on holiday. So much for the guy who needed 8 1/2 years to finish a 4-year course in college, and the king of the third floor who came to the office at 10 and left at 4.
*****
Wait, let's go back to the original statement, that I'm some sort of expert. In my opinion, either they're lying or they don't know me at all.
You see, all this effort I'm doing isn't really worth shit if I don't produce results. So far, all the projects that I've been taking on are in their incubation stage and the company has been taking a loss (ie my salary) waiting for them to bear fruit. Until the time when I have actually gotten one of these babies up and running and earning a decent profit for the company, then there is no achievement to speak of.
Unlike you regular joes, those on the factory floor or behind a desk, the job is pretty unforgiving. It's either I succeed or I don't, there are no points for trying and no excuses either. If it rains cats and dogs or a great big shark suddenly drops down from the sky and lands squarely on my head, the question would still be "Have you turned a profit, yet?".
Which actually makes the job all the more exciting. It's always a race to keep the company profitable and relevant. No laurels to rest on, no month-end to party after and no time for grief when a project is struck dead. When you get something up and running, it's time to move on to the next one. When the project implodes in your face, no choice but to keep working on the back-up plan.
*****
Of course, there is concern down the line. Won't I be depriving myself of a life? Will this career I've chosen turn me into a machine? Can my body keep up with itself and all the stress I'm gaining day in and day out?
Yesterday, there was a buzz at the office. Someone from the back-office died from an apparent cardiac arrest at the age of 27. I was told she was an indefatigable stalwart of the HR Department, and from what little contact I've made with her, she was a busy little bee indeed. The question "Will that happen to me?" rang a tiny little bell in my tiny little brain. I never got a chance to answer, my phone rang and in a second I was confirming a meeting for that morning.
Then there's my boss, holding top position in two separate companies with operations spanning 15 countries. I get an email from her at 12 midnight, and another one at 6:00 o'clock in the morning. One morning, as I was getting myself prepped up for a meeting with her, her assistant called me postponing our meeting to tomorrow. Apparently, she fainted from a vitamin deficiency or something. Also apparently, this was a regular occurrence that everyone in the office is sort of used to. The next day, I was having coffee with her at the office while going over line items in a research proposal I was doing.
Am I doomed?
*****
In my eccentric and over-simplified world, there are two types of people: those who take time off to stop and smell the flowers, and those who pull harder against the yoke so the flower-smellers get a chance to do so. I sort of transitioned from the former to the latter and so far, I'm finding the latter to be a better place at the moment. Mainly, the motivation I'm discovering is self-worth, that in the greater scheme of things I'm actually earning my keep. It's something I haven't felt in a long while, something that gives me an iota of entitlement.
And this entitlement that I'm feeling is really grand, even with the realization that I haven't made anything work yet. Some days ago, while listening to a friend of mine whine and bitch about his life over a number of bottles of beer, I can't help wearing a smug smile on my face, it was like looking at a mirror that reflected myself a number of years ago. I still have problems of course, still poor and alone. But now it's all a game, a puzzle to be solved and a chance to think out of the box.
*****
If there's one thing I'm sad about, though, it's that I haven't the chance to write as often as I want. Obviously, I'm having trouble keeping a singular train of thought, explaining all this gibberish that you're reading (in case you made it all the way here). I love writing, and there's always this dream of mine to write a good enough short story or novel even. I don't even have to be published, just knowing that I have written something is good enough for me. But unless I give some time to it, writing stuff on a more regular basis and improving a tad bit on stuff like grammar and spelling and vocabulary and sense, I don't think I'd have enough goods even for a haiku.
Don't worry, I'll keep trying (more torture for you folks) and spewing out nonsense in the meantime. Which reminds me I've got a report due tomorrow and a follow-up on a project on clean coal. How that reminded me? I dunno, really. A lot of stuff up in my head that I can't really explain the workings of.
I can't believe it either.
*****
I guess you've noticed, I haven't been posting much. It's a bit difficult when you get into the office at 8 in the morning and clock out a little past 8 in the evening. Then when I get home, I open my laptop and work some more. It's exhausting, and I've been sporting raccoon eyes for the past month. This is what I've traded my old life for.
And so far, I'm loving it.
I can't seem to put my finger on it, but there's a great thrill getting home knowing that you've just worked your ass off and you're gonna be back at it again tomorrow. And shamefully, I've reached a point that I'm so darn efficient at it that people have been piling more work on me and going out on holiday. So much for the guy who needed 8 1/2 years to finish a 4-year course in college, and the king of the third floor who came to the office at 10 and left at 4.
*****
Wait, let's go back to the original statement, that I'm some sort of expert. In my opinion, either they're lying or they don't know me at all.
You see, all this effort I'm doing isn't really worth shit if I don't produce results. So far, all the projects that I've been taking on are in their incubation stage and the company has been taking a loss (ie my salary) waiting for them to bear fruit. Until the time when I have actually gotten one of these babies up and running and earning a decent profit for the company, then there is no achievement to speak of.
Unlike you regular joes, those on the factory floor or behind a desk, the job is pretty unforgiving. It's either I succeed or I don't, there are no points for trying and no excuses either. If it rains cats and dogs or a great big shark suddenly drops down from the sky and lands squarely on my head, the question would still be "Have you turned a profit, yet?".
Which actually makes the job all the more exciting. It's always a race to keep the company profitable and relevant. No laurels to rest on, no month-end to party after and no time for grief when a project is struck dead. When you get something up and running, it's time to move on to the next one. When the project implodes in your face, no choice but to keep working on the back-up plan.
*****
Of course, there is concern down the line. Won't I be depriving myself of a life? Will this career I've chosen turn me into a machine? Can my body keep up with itself and all the stress I'm gaining day in and day out?
Yesterday, there was a buzz at the office. Someone from the back-office died from an apparent cardiac arrest at the age of 27. I was told she was an indefatigable stalwart of the HR Department, and from what little contact I've made with her, she was a busy little bee indeed. The question "Will that happen to me?" rang a tiny little bell in my tiny little brain. I never got a chance to answer, my phone rang and in a second I was confirming a meeting for that morning.
Then there's my boss, holding top position in two separate companies with operations spanning 15 countries. I get an email from her at 12 midnight, and another one at 6:00 o'clock in the morning. One morning, as I was getting myself prepped up for a meeting with her, her assistant called me postponing our meeting to tomorrow. Apparently, she fainted from a vitamin deficiency or something. Also apparently, this was a regular occurrence that everyone in the office is sort of used to. The next day, I was having coffee with her at the office while going over line items in a research proposal I was doing.
Am I doomed?
*****
In my eccentric and over-simplified world, there are two types of people: those who take time off to stop and smell the flowers, and those who pull harder against the yoke so the flower-smellers get a chance to do so. I sort of transitioned from the former to the latter and so far, I'm finding the latter to be a better place at the moment. Mainly, the motivation I'm discovering is self-worth, that in the greater scheme of things I'm actually earning my keep. It's something I haven't felt in a long while, something that gives me an iota of entitlement.
And this entitlement that I'm feeling is really grand, even with the realization that I haven't made anything work yet. Some days ago, while listening to a friend of mine whine and bitch about his life over a number of bottles of beer, I can't help wearing a smug smile on my face, it was like looking at a mirror that reflected myself a number of years ago. I still have problems of course, still poor and alone. But now it's all a game, a puzzle to be solved and a chance to think out of the box.
*****
If there's one thing I'm sad about, though, it's that I haven't the chance to write as often as I want. Obviously, I'm having trouble keeping a singular train of thought, explaining all this gibberish that you're reading (in case you made it all the way here). I love writing, and there's always this dream of mine to write a good enough short story or novel even. I don't even have to be published, just knowing that I have written something is good enough for me. But unless I give some time to it, writing stuff on a more regular basis and improving a tad bit on stuff like grammar and spelling and vocabulary and sense, I don't think I'd have enough goods even for a haiku.
Don't worry, I'll keep trying (more torture for you folks) and spewing out nonsense in the meantime. Which reminds me I've got a report due tomorrow and a follow-up on a project on clean coal. How that reminded me? I dunno, really. A lot of stuff up in my head that I can't really explain the workings of.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Sense-less (As usual)
Hi! Been a while, hasn't it? Well, it's not that I haven't been writing, in fact I've got a bunch of posts saved as drafts. Mostly they were about work, so I didn't think you'd like them anyway.
*****
So now I'm here, what to write about? Oh, I dunno... my life has been pretty boring as of late. Well, not that boring, just monotonous. Yeah, work has a lot to do with it, I guess. I'm working my ass off to stay employed. I hear jobs are pretty scarce nowadays, and the price of cigarettes are going up as well. Need that job to slowly kill myself with smoke.
Speaking of killing, I'm sure you noticed the picture of a rat pinned down by a flat iron that I posted the last time. (Yeah, got pretty lazy I didn't bother to write the story I wanted) Anyway, he's now our official mascot at home. When there's nothing else to do, my sister and I think up new ways of making its life more miserable. Guaranteed to bring a smile to your face each time.
Like the time I threw him into the laundry. I could imagine him squeaking and helpless, battling the spinning monster that is the washing machine. Or the time I put him in the microwave, hoping he's scare my sister during breakfast. Well, my sister didn't really see him and almost toasted him to dust. My favorite would probably be hiding him in the freezer... after which he stank like a hotdog. (The inspiration for throwing him in the laundry, in fact)
He survived. Rats are survivors anyway. He must have over 200 lives by my last count. We're trying to push him to see if he's got at least 500 more.
*****
Have I told you about my new favorite thing? No, not the rat, (close second, though) it's decaf. Yeah, coffee without having to worry about being awake until 3am. I started buying the stuff when I realized that I was downing too may cups of joe lately. I drink coffee when I wake up, when I get to the office, before lunch, after lunch and when I get home. Sometimes, I make myself a really generous mug of the stuff, and wonder why I always feel like there's an earthquake.
Why all that coffee? Because when you're a miser, and the coffee at the office is free, you get ideas.
So now, I drink decaf when I wake up (same effect of making you wanna poop), and when I get home. My house is now a caffeine-free zone! Obviously I get to sleep better as well, which saves me about an hour of being in zombie mode in the morning.
Now all this makes me wonder, who the heck invented the stuff? How did he suddenly realize that one day, someone would want to drink coffee without having to worry about not being able to sleep early? And then the more important question comes: If decaf is now a household name, why isn't non-alcoholic beer? I mean, I certainly wouldn't touch the stuff, and yet I hate hangovers. Do you think these alternatives were invented by one and the same guy? (Google away, people!)
So what other things have been bastardized of their original purpose? Do electronic cigarettes count? Zero-calorie soda? Veggie-meat? Invisible ink? Riverdale the movie? Pamela Anderson's breast reduction?
*****
I've been thinking of buying a car. I had to return my old one after I resigned from the company that actually owns it so now I'm taking the bus. But this afternoon, when I actually visited the dealership across the street from my office, I had second thoughts. Do I really need one?
Sure cars are convenient, but I've been doing alright for the past 2 months now without one that I'm beginning to wonder if I should buy one. Of course, there are times when I wish I had one at my disposal, but these have been few and far between, and almost always a cab is there to ferry me wherever I pleased.
Yesterday, I was on an out-of-office trip. I can't tell you how fun it was to sleep in the passenger's seat while a driver was doing all the work for you. I think I even snored myself awake a few times, but hell, I've logged enough hours doing the driving that I deserved this! And those times that I was awake, I did nothing but stare out of the window like a kid. Yeah, being a passenger is fun.
*****
So now I'm here, what to write about? Oh, I dunno... my life has been pretty boring as of late. Well, not that boring, just monotonous. Yeah, work has a lot to do with it, I guess. I'm working my ass off to stay employed. I hear jobs are pretty scarce nowadays, and the price of cigarettes are going up as well. Need that job to slowly kill myself with smoke.
Speaking of killing, I'm sure you noticed the picture of a rat pinned down by a flat iron that I posted the last time. (Yeah, got pretty lazy I didn't bother to write the story I wanted) Anyway, he's now our official mascot at home. When there's nothing else to do, my sister and I think up new ways of making its life more miserable. Guaranteed to bring a smile to your face each time.
Like the time I threw him into the laundry. I could imagine him squeaking and helpless, battling the spinning monster that is the washing machine. Or the time I put him in the microwave, hoping he's scare my sister during breakfast. Well, my sister didn't really see him and almost toasted him to dust. My favorite would probably be hiding him in the freezer... after which he stank like a hotdog. (The inspiration for throwing him in the laundry, in fact)
He survived. Rats are survivors anyway. He must have over 200 lives by my last count. We're trying to push him to see if he's got at least 500 more.
*****
Have I told you about my new favorite thing? No, not the rat, (close second, though) it's decaf. Yeah, coffee without having to worry about being awake until 3am. I started buying the stuff when I realized that I was downing too may cups of joe lately. I drink coffee when I wake up, when I get to the office, before lunch, after lunch and when I get home. Sometimes, I make myself a really generous mug of the stuff, and wonder why I always feel like there's an earthquake.
Why all that coffee? Because when you're a miser, and the coffee at the office is free, you get ideas.
So now, I drink decaf when I wake up (same effect of making you wanna poop), and when I get home. My house is now a caffeine-free zone! Obviously I get to sleep better as well, which saves me about an hour of being in zombie mode in the morning.
Now all this makes me wonder, who the heck invented the stuff? How did he suddenly realize that one day, someone would want to drink coffee without having to worry about not being able to sleep early? And then the more important question comes: If decaf is now a household name, why isn't non-alcoholic beer? I mean, I certainly wouldn't touch the stuff, and yet I hate hangovers. Do you think these alternatives were invented by one and the same guy? (Google away, people!)
So what other things have been bastardized of their original purpose? Do electronic cigarettes count? Zero-calorie soda? Veggie-meat? Invisible ink? Riverdale the movie? Pamela Anderson's breast reduction?
*****
I've been thinking of buying a car. I had to return my old one after I resigned from the company that actually owns it so now I'm taking the bus. But this afternoon, when I actually visited the dealership across the street from my office, I had second thoughts. Do I really need one?
Sure cars are convenient, but I've been doing alright for the past 2 months now without one that I'm beginning to wonder if I should buy one. Of course, there are times when I wish I had one at my disposal, but these have been few and far between, and almost always a cab is there to ferry me wherever I pleased.
Yesterday, I was on an out-of-office trip. I can't tell you how fun it was to sleep in the passenger's seat while a driver was doing all the work for you. I think I even snored myself awake a few times, but hell, I've logged enough hours doing the driving that I deserved this! And those times that I was awake, I did nothing but stare out of the window like a kid. Yeah, being a passenger is fun.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Back in the Saddle
So I'm out of wine. Wait, that's not true. I've still got a box of the stuff in my room, ancient relics from Christmas when I got lazy and decided my clients would live through the holidays without 'em. Nonetheless, I tired of drinking free booze and made a late night trip to the convenience store for some real liquor.
That's when I saw an old friend, a particular brand of el mucho cheapo brandy that doubles as kerosene, I'm sure. Must admit, it made me smile. Takes me back to another time, when all I wanted to do was drown myself in the stuff.
Took one off the shelf and promptly paid for it.
*****
Yes, another Saturday at home. Slept the whole day, too. It's a nice feeling, just watching the dust bunnies stage their impending assault behind the living room sofa. Was tempted to move 4 feet to get the vacuum cleaner, but hell, let 'em have their day. I'm too lazy to bother.
Which brings me to this blog, which I realize has not been replenished of my usual nonsense for almost a month. A few of you may wonder why, has my life finally found some direction and meaning? Have I taken a tour of India for some Eat, Pray Love bullshit? Did I slip and fall in the shower, laid comatose and becoming rat-food all this time? Nope, not yet anyway (though I'm sure the rats are still plotting). Chalk this one up to my inability to hold one single coherent idea for more than a minute.
Oh, and did you know I'm employed again? Yeah, I was unemployed for a week, but now I'm in voluntary slavery again. How is it? Fine, I guess. A little ruffled at all the actual work that is expected of me. I knew I shouldn't have put all those "achievements" in my resume. Now they think I'm some sort of wunderkind who has all the answers.
Why did I have to leave the old nest? That place where I installed myself as king of the third floor and made doing my job look a lot harder than what it really was (the real truth of it was that I really didn't do anything but lug around some notes and some official looking printouts and read the reports of my staff). And it wasn't like someone found out, too. When I told them I was leaving my third floor kingdom, they even made a counter offer! Maybe I should have taken it, it wasn't bad at all. And I almost did, too. If they just put it just a tinsy weensy bit more (like a dead horse's head in my bed, perhaps) I would've jumped on it.
Well, that's history now. And I've got this real (real) job where they expect me to do stuff for real (really) and expect me to produce real (I can't over-stress how real this is to me) results. I hate to say this, but the prospects of me hitting the streets is pretty real enough as well. THE REAL WORLD SUCKS!!! I want to go back to college and do nothing but copy off my seatmate and wait for the next booze-fest to begin. *sigh*
*****
Yes I know, I'm beginning to sound like a whining little bitch. Don't worry, I'm beginning to lose respect for myself as well. Even more than you guys are, probably. Whatever is that saying, 'Be careful what you wish for, because Santa just might give it and drop that big 55-inch television right on your head'?
Oh, if you're wondering, no I haven't bought myself a 55-inch television just yet off my salary. I was gonna, but settled for a bottle of cheap brandy instead. Tastes much better with ice, too. (What the heck am I blabbering about? Gee, I dunno. This is real cheap brandy, didn't I just say?)
That's when I saw an old friend, a particular brand of el mucho cheapo brandy that doubles as kerosene, I'm sure. Must admit, it made me smile. Takes me back to another time, when all I wanted to do was drown myself in the stuff.
Took one off the shelf and promptly paid for it.
*****
Yes, another Saturday at home. Slept the whole day, too. It's a nice feeling, just watching the dust bunnies stage their impending assault behind the living room sofa. Was tempted to move 4 feet to get the vacuum cleaner, but hell, let 'em have their day. I'm too lazy to bother.
Which brings me to this blog, which I realize has not been replenished of my usual nonsense for almost a month. A few of you may wonder why, has my life finally found some direction and meaning? Have I taken a tour of India for some Eat, Pray Love bullshit? Did I slip and fall in the shower, laid comatose and becoming rat-food all this time? Nope, not yet anyway (though I'm sure the rats are still plotting). Chalk this one up to my inability to hold one single coherent idea for more than a minute.
Oh, and did you know I'm employed again? Yeah, I was unemployed for a week, but now I'm in voluntary slavery again. How is it? Fine, I guess. A little ruffled at all the actual work that is expected of me. I knew I shouldn't have put all those "achievements" in my resume. Now they think I'm some sort of wunderkind who has all the answers.
Why did I have to leave the old nest? That place where I installed myself as king of the third floor and made doing my job look a lot harder than what it really was (the real truth of it was that I really didn't do anything but lug around some notes and some official looking printouts and read the reports of my staff). And it wasn't like someone found out, too. When I told them I was leaving my third floor kingdom, they even made a counter offer! Maybe I should have taken it, it wasn't bad at all. And I almost did, too. If they just put it just a tinsy weensy bit more (like a dead horse's head in my bed, perhaps) I would've jumped on it.
Well, that's history now. And I've got this real (real) job where they expect me to do stuff for real (really) and expect me to produce real (I can't over-stress how real this is to me) results. I hate to say this, but the prospects of me hitting the streets is pretty real enough as well. THE REAL WORLD SUCKS!!! I want to go back to college and do nothing but copy off my seatmate and wait for the next booze-fest to begin. *sigh*
*****
Yes I know, I'm beginning to sound like a whining little bitch. Don't worry, I'm beginning to lose respect for myself as well. Even more than you guys are, probably. Whatever is that saying, 'Be careful what you wish for, because Santa just might give it and drop that big 55-inch television right on your head'?
Oh, if you're wondering, no I haven't bought myself a 55-inch television just yet off my salary. I was gonna, but settled for a bottle of cheap brandy instead. Tastes much better with ice, too. (What the heck am I blabbering about? Gee, I dunno. This is real cheap brandy, didn't I just say?)
Friday, February 18, 2011
I've gotta stop talking to myself...
It's the year 2030, there I am walking slowly around the academic oval at the university. Funny feeling seeing yourself old and gray, and much weaker than you were. I hesitate approaching myself, not sure if the cosmos would take it well and decide to zap me into non-existence, but I'm already here and it would be utterly dumb to just do nothing at this point.
Then old me sees young me and squints, in disbelief. Future me stops his step awkwardly, wiping the sweat from his brow and wheezes a bit. Boy I should really stop smoking, I guess.
"Hey, you're me!", old me exclaims.
"Uhm, guess so. How are you, I guess?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?", crap, even in old age I'm that smug.
"Ok, I see I'm still alive so that must be a plus."
"Dumbass..."
*****
"So, you married?" I can't help but ask while he swirls his whisky, making the ice cubes jiggle and clatter against each other.
"Yeah."
"Do I know her?"
"Of course you do, dumbass!"
"Wow, so many years and you're still stuck with that word? Didn't your vocabulary get any bigger? I meant, do I know her in the present tense, in my time?"
"How old are you again?"
"Thirty-ish."
"Nah, I'm not telling. You just might spoil everything."
"Yeah, that's alright. Any kids, though?"
"You'll know soon enough." He flashes a smile, and I feel a big lump in my throat.
"REALLY?! You can't be fucking serious?!"
"Hahaha, I'm not saying, of course."
"Ass." I get back to my beer. It seemed so much more mature than present (future?) company.
"I'll tell you one thing, though..."
"Fucking finally!"
"Hey! You wanna hear it or not?"
"What already?!"
"You're life is great. Personally, I'm a little pissed that you came all the way here to check up on it."
"Well, you can't be too careful, you know."
"Dumbass."
"Did I knock my head on something in the future? I'm beginning to think I turn dumber with age."
"Aw shut up already. You're still alive and drinking in 20 years, that you know now. Isn't that enough?"
Oddly enough, now that I have seen myself old, I sense that the trip was a bit of a letdown. Why did I want to check up on myself? Because I wanted to know if I should stop smoking already?
"Listen kid, since you're here already, I might as well give you some advice."
"Like what?"
"Well, of course I've had some regrets. And though I don't really believe that I should dwell on those, the fact that you're here makes it all convenient, doesn't it?"
"What regrets?"
"If you ever decide to get a hooker, never for a second believe that they're mute. NEVER."
"Why?"
"Just remember that. Saves me a lot of embarrassment."
"Well, me needing a hooker between my age and yours is a bit of an embarrassment already, won't you say?"
"Here here!"
"Got anything else?"
"Yeah, call the folks more often than you do. Visit them more often, too."
"Really?"
"Yeah." I look down at my beer, not wanting to ask more of it. "Tell your sisters the same thing too. It's no big deal, really, you just don't want to feel like you never did enough, understand?" I nod.
It was awkward now, as we both just sat there drinking to ourselves.
*****
Apparently, I do not age well as I find myself having to endure older me belting out an Elton John tune in the full drunken state. Although I'll have to say that the for someone over 50 who finished about 8 shots of scotch, being awake is probably a bonus.
He points me to a park bench, and I stop my future car (a station wagon, of all things!) opposite it on a curb. Older me struggles to get out of his seat, though he did swat my hand away when I tried to help. He finds his bearing soon enough and lands his ass on the bench.
"Oh crap! I end up a bum at the park?!"
"For the love of God shut the fuck up! I'm not bringing you to my house, It'll spoil everything!"
"As long as I don't end up a bum, that's all right by me."
"Give me a cigarette." I hand one over to him and light it up.
"Ahh, I've missed these. I've had to stop smoking because of asthma."
"I don't have asthma."
"Not mine, dumbass!"
"Oh, okay. Just checking."
"You still have a copy of 'The Little Prince'?"
"No, I gave it away, remember?"
"Oh yeah, to that bitch, right!"
"You ever see her again?"
"One time, I think."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'Oh'." The little asswipe grins.
"What about the book?"
"Get another copy, don't give it away this time. Read it again. It'll make you smart."
"Like you, 'dumbass'?"
"Yeah like me. Hell, you don't really have a choice, do you?"
"I do, actually. You might even like the odds."
"Don't you try being smug. I'm not the still watching porn."
"Oh shit, I turn impotent at 50! Ouch, what's the big idea!"
"I'm not impotent! Dumbass!"
"Of course, I'm pretty sure Viagra's gonna still be available... Ow!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Alright, alright! Can't I take a joke?"
*****
"Why the station wagon?"
"Depth perception, I've been having trouble with it lately."
"I see. Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Seeing as you went through all that trouble to be here, I'm assuming that's the whole point, isn't it?"
"Yeah, whatever gramps. Anyway, are you happy?"
"Well, it ain't perfect that I'll say. That's such a fucked up question! And you're supposed to be smart? Jeez!"
"Oh come on! Can't you answer even that?!"
"It ain't the right question! You can't go asking anybody if they're happy, what the hell does that mean, anyway? If I were happy, then I wouldn't have been cursing my ass off when I missed the toilet bowl completely this morning, would I?"
"That's just great, I get to be that crabby old man in the neighborhood."
"No, I'm not. You just asked such a stupid question."
"What should I have asked then?"
"When you get to be my age, you never think about being happy. Just content."
"Content?"
"Yeah, you should ask, 'Are you content?'".
"Fine. Are you content?"
"Yeah, I am. Thanks for asking."
"I still don't get it."
"That's why I keep calling you a dumbass, dumbass!"
Then old me sees young me and squints, in disbelief. Future me stops his step awkwardly, wiping the sweat from his brow and wheezes a bit. Boy I should really stop smoking, I guess.
"Hey, you're me!", old me exclaims.
"Uhm, guess so. How are you, I guess?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?", crap, even in old age I'm that smug.
"Ok, I see I'm still alive so that must be a plus."
"Dumbass..."
*****
"So, you married?" I can't help but ask while he swirls his whisky, making the ice cubes jiggle and clatter against each other.
"Yeah."
"Do I know her?"
"Of course you do, dumbass!"
"Wow, so many years and you're still stuck with that word? Didn't your vocabulary get any bigger? I meant, do I know her in the present tense, in my time?"
"How old are you again?"
"Thirty-ish."
"Nah, I'm not telling. You just might spoil everything."
"Yeah, that's alright. Any kids, though?"
"You'll know soon enough." He flashes a smile, and I feel a big lump in my throat.
"REALLY?! You can't be fucking serious?!"
"Hahaha, I'm not saying, of course."
"Ass." I get back to my beer. It seemed so much more mature than present (future?) company.
"I'll tell you one thing, though..."
"Fucking finally!"
"Hey! You wanna hear it or not?"
"What already?!"
"You're life is great. Personally, I'm a little pissed that you came all the way here to check up on it."
"Well, you can't be too careful, you know."
"Dumbass."
"Did I knock my head on something in the future? I'm beginning to think I turn dumber with age."
"Aw shut up already. You're still alive and drinking in 20 years, that you know now. Isn't that enough?"
Oddly enough, now that I have seen myself old, I sense that the trip was a bit of a letdown. Why did I want to check up on myself? Because I wanted to know if I should stop smoking already?
"Listen kid, since you're here already, I might as well give you some advice."
"Like what?"
"Well, of course I've had some regrets. And though I don't really believe that I should dwell on those, the fact that you're here makes it all convenient, doesn't it?"
"What regrets?"
"If you ever decide to get a hooker, never for a second believe that they're mute. NEVER."
"Why?"
"Just remember that. Saves me a lot of embarrassment."
"Well, me needing a hooker between my age and yours is a bit of an embarrassment already, won't you say?"
"Here here!"
"Got anything else?"
"Yeah, call the folks more often than you do. Visit them more often, too."
"Really?"
"Yeah." I look down at my beer, not wanting to ask more of it. "Tell your sisters the same thing too. It's no big deal, really, you just don't want to feel like you never did enough, understand?" I nod.
It was awkward now, as we both just sat there drinking to ourselves.
*****
Apparently, I do not age well as I find myself having to endure older me belting out an Elton John tune in the full drunken state. Although I'll have to say that the for someone over 50 who finished about 8 shots of scotch, being awake is probably a bonus.
He points me to a park bench, and I stop my future car (a station wagon, of all things!) opposite it on a curb. Older me struggles to get out of his seat, though he did swat my hand away when I tried to help. He finds his bearing soon enough and lands his ass on the bench.
"Oh crap! I end up a bum at the park?!"
"For the love of God shut the fuck up! I'm not bringing you to my house, It'll spoil everything!"
"As long as I don't end up a bum, that's all right by me."
"Give me a cigarette." I hand one over to him and light it up.
"Ahh, I've missed these. I've had to stop smoking because of asthma."
"I don't have asthma."
"Not mine, dumbass!"
"Oh, okay. Just checking."
"You still have a copy of 'The Little Prince'?"
"No, I gave it away, remember?"
"Oh yeah, to that bitch, right!"
"You ever see her again?"
"One time, I think."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'Oh'." The little asswipe grins.
"What about the book?"
"Get another copy, don't give it away this time. Read it again. It'll make you smart."
"Like you, 'dumbass'?"
"Yeah like me. Hell, you don't really have a choice, do you?"
"I do, actually. You might even like the odds."
"Don't you try being smug. I'm not the still watching porn."
"Oh shit, I turn impotent at 50! Ouch, what's the big idea!"
"I'm not impotent! Dumbass!"
"Of course, I'm pretty sure Viagra's gonna still be available... Ow!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Alright, alright! Can't I take a joke?"
*****
"Why the station wagon?"
"Depth perception, I've been having trouble with it lately."
"I see. Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Seeing as you went through all that trouble to be here, I'm assuming that's the whole point, isn't it?"
"Yeah, whatever gramps. Anyway, are you happy?"
"Well, it ain't perfect that I'll say. That's such a fucked up question! And you're supposed to be smart? Jeez!"
"Oh come on! Can't you answer even that?!"
"It ain't the right question! You can't go asking anybody if they're happy, what the hell does that mean, anyway? If I were happy, then I wouldn't have been cursing my ass off when I missed the toilet bowl completely this morning, would I?"
"That's just great, I get to be that crabby old man in the neighborhood."
"No, I'm not. You just asked such a stupid question."
"What should I have asked then?"
"When you get to be my age, you never think about being happy. Just content."
"Content?"
"Yeah, you should ask, 'Are you content?'".
"Fine. Are you content?"
"Yeah, I am. Thanks for asking."
"I still don't get it."
"That's why I keep calling you a dumbass, dumbass!"
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Bus boy
Perfect timing, just when I'm about to forfeit the use of a company-issued car, I see the news and there it is, a bus exploding. My favorite form of public transport is under attack. Apparently, not so many people share my love city buses.
Before the bombing, there was all the attacks against buses plying EDSA, the city's main thoroughfare. They were the leading cause of traffic and pollution, it was said too many times and a as result, were subjected to the vehicle reduction scheme implemented on private vehicles and taxis. One friend of mine even goes as far to declare that the city should be rid of all buses to finally solve the traffic and pollution problems, on her facebook page. That wall post got a lot of likes and positive comments.
Here's a picture of bus traffic, to give a fair picture of why she's ranting about buses:
If you happen to agree with my friend or generally hate buses, be warned that in the following sentences I will be defending the noble and hard-working city buses. So if you hate them and doubt that your opinion of them would ever change, then you may stop now and save yourself the grief.
*****
It was the year 1990 when I first faced the prospect of commuting to high school on a daily basis. I was in my second semester of freshman high school, which was also the year that I discovered a love for arcade games. However, the only chance that I had to play them was right after school at the mall, which kinda interfered with the carpool schedule. So I ditched the carpool and had taken up the courage to commute to and from school via the bus.
The bus ride to school from our house was a daily 15-20 minute ordeal. The chances of me getting a seat were minimal as I hopped on the bus right smack in the middle of its route between two commercial business districts, but that didn't really bother me too much. The free time that it afforded me to stay out longer after classes was enough to justify the temporary hassle. It was real cheap, too which meant more tokens to burn at the arcade on my limited allowance. Thus came the start of my love for these city buses.
Of course, there were dangers, I'll admit. Every so often, you get to sit or stand beside some weirdo who didn't think it necessary to take a shower more than once a week. Pedophiles and exhibitionists also presented themselves every couple of months, and con men or 'snatchers' were a constant threat. There were also times when you boarded an air-conditioned bus without the benefit of air-conditioning (but still paid the premium rates, anyway) or those that still had those really uncomfortable hardwood seats from the sixties. But really, what is life without all these dangers every once in a while anyway? What I mean to say is that in the big bad third world, you're bound to run into such "inconveniences" more often that you would like, anyway, whether inside a dilapidated bus or elsewhere.
So at the onset of my bus-boarding life, I learned to take everything in stride, and accept that good things get balanced out with the bad. This went on for the next 4 years of high school, generally without much incident.
Things started to change a bit in college, during which time I got my driver's license. I spent less time at the bus stop and more borrowing my dad's car. The commute also changed, from the 15-20 minute ride to my high school, to the 30-45 minute ordeal to the university. Taking the bus now required a more deliberate effort to be early, so I preferred taking the car. Plus, driving a car to school, it was said, instantly gave you a higher status with the ladies. (Which in retrospect, didn't really work for me all those years. Crap.) Still, the bus was a viable option, a bit more inconvenient than having your own car, but still an option.
Then, as I found myself overstaying in college, came the dawn of a new era in third-world public transport, the metro rail or MRT. This elevated form of transport was far superior in delivering people from point A to point B than the buses, owing to its ability to zoom above the snarly traffic of EDSA. Travel time was slashed from 45 minutes to 20. By this time, whenever my dad decided to ground me from using his car (which was real often considering my penchant for getting home in the wee hours of the early morning drunk or already hung over), I used the MRT to go to school. Despite this, however, I still took the bus home. Sure, it took a heck of a lot longer, but the homeward commute wasn't as urgent anyway. Plus, it afforded me the luxury of time to daydream, or at least let my drunkenness pass by the time I came knocking at the door. ("Why the hell do you smell like a friggin' bar?", "Oh I sat beside a homeless dude on the bus. *hic* That must be it. *hic*") The MRT is also not without hassles, most notably it deprives me of my right to personal space (at times even breathing space) for all of those 20 minutes.
Fast forward to the present, acne's all cleared up and with no more curfews. I'm no longer using my dad's car so he doesn't get to ground me anymore. I also rarely use the bus as it's way inconvenient, having to take 3 transfers, walking in the 80% humidity of the tropics to the succeeding stations which gets me to my office 40 kilometers away.
Of course, driving on city roads in the middle of rush hour is definitely no picnic, and I've had my share of flicking the bird at one too many bus drivers. They're big, they stop a lot, and they're prone to belch out black smoke from their over-worked diesels. But do I declare that they're the source of all this traffic and pollution? Well, no. Here's why:
If I count the number of vehicles on the road, there are far fewer buses than private vehicles. Sure, they may be big and bothersome and clunky, but each holds around 40 people. Most of these private vehicles, including my own, hold only one. So it might be safe to assume that those people bitching about how evil buses are, take up an awful lot of space on the road with their big-ass SUV or underutilized cars relative to how many people they actually move.
To futher my point:
See how many people wait for buses and or other modes of public transportation? Imagine how traffic and pollution gets even worse if we give each one of them an Escalade.
*****
Sorry for whining and bitching, folks. I guess I just needed to mentally prepare myself to take the bus on a regular basis in the near future. It's not really convenient, but I don't really have much of a choice, do I?
I can hear someone at the back, saying why don't I use a bicycle. Well shut up cause I've already thought about it, you tree-hugging, fossil-fuel hating environmentalist prick! It's just not optimal for me. I'm sort of prone to sweating, and living in the tropics, where it's well over 30 degrees Celsius for most of the year with 80% humidity, means riding a bike to work for 20 minutes will give the person sitting next to me hell for the whole damn day. Besides, have you seen the size of those buses? I don't really want to get run over by them. I love 'em, but I don't wanna get to get that close to them on a flimsy little two-wheeler.
Before the bombing, there was all the attacks against buses plying EDSA, the city's main thoroughfare. They were the leading cause of traffic and pollution, it was said too many times and a as result, were subjected to the vehicle reduction scheme implemented on private vehicles and taxis. One friend of mine even goes as far to declare that the city should be rid of all buses to finally solve the traffic and pollution problems, on her facebook page. That wall post got a lot of likes and positive comments.
Here's a picture of bus traffic, to give a fair picture of why she's ranting about buses:
If you happen to agree with my friend or generally hate buses, be warned that in the following sentences I will be defending the noble and hard-working city buses. So if you hate them and doubt that your opinion of them would ever change, then you may stop now and save yourself the grief.
*****
It was the year 1990 when I first faced the prospect of commuting to high school on a daily basis. I was in my second semester of freshman high school, which was also the year that I discovered a love for arcade games. However, the only chance that I had to play them was right after school at the mall, which kinda interfered with the carpool schedule. So I ditched the carpool and had taken up the courage to commute to and from school via the bus.
The bus ride to school from our house was a daily 15-20 minute ordeal. The chances of me getting a seat were minimal as I hopped on the bus right smack in the middle of its route between two commercial business districts, but that didn't really bother me too much. The free time that it afforded me to stay out longer after classes was enough to justify the temporary hassle. It was real cheap, too which meant more tokens to burn at the arcade on my limited allowance. Thus came the start of my love for these city buses.
Of course, there were dangers, I'll admit. Every so often, you get to sit or stand beside some weirdo who didn't think it necessary to take a shower more than once a week. Pedophiles and exhibitionists also presented themselves every couple of months, and con men or 'snatchers' were a constant threat. There were also times when you boarded an air-conditioned bus without the benefit of air-conditioning (but still paid the premium rates, anyway) or those that still had those really uncomfortable hardwood seats from the sixties. But really, what is life without all these dangers every once in a while anyway? What I mean to say is that in the big bad third world, you're bound to run into such "inconveniences" more often that you would like, anyway, whether inside a dilapidated bus or elsewhere.
So at the onset of my bus-boarding life, I learned to take everything in stride, and accept that good things get balanced out with the bad. This went on for the next 4 years of high school, generally without much incident.
Things started to change a bit in college, during which time I got my driver's license. I spent less time at the bus stop and more borrowing my dad's car. The commute also changed, from the 15-20 minute ride to my high school, to the 30-45 minute ordeal to the university. Taking the bus now required a more deliberate effort to be early, so I preferred taking the car. Plus, driving a car to school, it was said, instantly gave you a higher status with the ladies. (Which in retrospect, didn't really work for me all those years. Crap.) Still, the bus was a viable option, a bit more inconvenient than having your own car, but still an option.
Then, as I found myself overstaying in college, came the dawn of a new era in third-world public transport, the metro rail or MRT. This elevated form of transport was far superior in delivering people from point A to point B than the buses, owing to its ability to zoom above the snarly traffic of EDSA. Travel time was slashed from 45 minutes to 20. By this time, whenever my dad decided to ground me from using his car (which was real often considering my penchant for getting home in the wee hours of the early morning drunk or already hung over), I used the MRT to go to school. Despite this, however, I still took the bus home. Sure, it took a heck of a lot longer, but the homeward commute wasn't as urgent anyway. Plus, it afforded me the luxury of time to daydream, or at least let my drunkenness pass by the time I came knocking at the door. ("Why the hell do you smell like a friggin' bar?", "Oh I sat beside a homeless dude on the bus. *hic* That must be it. *hic*") The MRT is also not without hassles, most notably it deprives me of my right to personal space (at times even breathing space) for all of those 20 minutes.
Fast forward to the present, acne's all cleared up and with no more curfews. I'm no longer using my dad's car so he doesn't get to ground me anymore. I also rarely use the bus as it's way inconvenient, having to take 3 transfers, walking in the 80% humidity of the tropics to the succeeding stations which gets me to my office 40 kilometers away.
Of course, driving on city roads in the middle of rush hour is definitely no picnic, and I've had my share of flicking the bird at one too many bus drivers. They're big, they stop a lot, and they're prone to belch out black smoke from their over-worked diesels. But do I declare that they're the source of all this traffic and pollution? Well, no. Here's why:
If I count the number of vehicles on the road, there are far fewer buses than private vehicles. Sure, they may be big and bothersome and clunky, but each holds around 40 people. Most of these private vehicles, including my own, hold only one. So it might be safe to assume that those people bitching about how evil buses are, take up an awful lot of space on the road with their big-ass SUV or underutilized cars relative to how many people they actually move.
To futher my point:
See how many people wait for buses and or other modes of public transportation? Imagine how traffic and pollution gets even worse if we give each one of them an Escalade.
*****
Sorry for whining and bitching, folks. I guess I just needed to mentally prepare myself to take the bus on a regular basis in the near future. It's not really convenient, but I don't really have much of a choice, do I?
I can hear someone at the back, saying why don't I use a bicycle. Well shut up cause I've already thought about it, you tree-hugging, fossil-fuel hating environmentalist prick! It's just not optimal for me. I'm sort of prone to sweating, and living in the tropics, where it's well over 30 degrees Celsius for most of the year with 80% humidity, means riding a bike to work for 20 minutes will give the person sitting next to me hell for the whole damn day. Besides, have you seen the size of those buses? I don't really want to get run over by them. I love 'em, but I don't wanna get to get that close to them on a flimsy little two-wheeler.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Who needs structure?
I've been having a hard time thinking up things to write. This is an awful predicament for someone who actually writes about nonsense, as you can imagine. How the heck could I run out of stuff to write about when I'm free to write about anything under the sun?
Maybe I need some *gasp!* "structure".
*****
I was having a conversation with a friend of mine, about maybe setting some parameters for this here blog, you know, like a general topic or something. At the time, it seemed preposterous, it was the freedom to blab about anything and everything that gave me the idea to set up this blog in the first place, and I'm supposed to define boundaries?
But then, something (or nothing, rather) happened and I'm all out of things to write about. What the...?
It all starts with choosing what to write about, a thought comes into my head, and I start on it, then my ADD kicks in and another thought takes its place, thereby displacing any progress that was made on prior topic. I start writing about this new thing and before long I'm off blabbering about something entirely different. It's a tough process, and alcohol-aided writing doesn't seem to help me focus, either.
I've heard of this phenomenon before, or maybe it was just a quote I heard, going something like "...he who has the freedom to do anything ends up doing nothing..." or some other crap. Is this what they call a paradox or is it an oxymoron? I really can't bother myself to analyze the difference. Maybe I should have paid more attention to my language classes.
*****
Speaking of language classes, I think I remember the reason why I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have: my freshman high school english teacher was hot. This, on the part of the whole high school academe is (was?) a mistake. Year on year, hordes of high school graduates with a weak grasp of the English language manage to squeak past the bare minimum requirements and diminish the collective grammatical intellect of the population in general. Then again, better flunk English (which is only a second language in this country) than Math. Heck, my Math teachers were fugly and yet I failed in that anyway. How low could my grades have sunk further if my Math teacher was hot?
*****
Wait, what was the original topic? Oh yeah, structure. Sorry about that, damn attention span.
So this structure thing, it now seems to be a viable solution. At least if I lay down some general topic, then maybe I could have more focus and actually write something that makes some sense. I've actually went as far as listing down some topics for my future consideration. I've written them down as possible blog titles:
1. Personal Destitution 101
Where I basically write about how I manage to spend way beyond my means and yet still survive (barely). This is so not Self-help.
2. Living with laundry
Basically, this will touch on the intricacies that I have learned (and am still learning) from doing my own laundry. From reviews of different detergents to the effects of hot and cold rinsing on polyesters.
If ever I do roll out this particular blog, feel free to hunt me down whack me in the head with a 9-iron. Please?
3. The most awful and boring places on Earth
Every travel blog I've read have the words 'amazing' or 'tranquil' or 'exciting' in them. Mine's gonna have phrases such as 'rat-infested' and 'what a waste of time' and 'ugliest hookers, ever' instead.
4. Before the "thud"
Now this is part journalism and part fiction. Since I see an awful lot of roadkill in a week, the plan is to spot roadkill, stop and take a picture of it (without being roadkill, myself), try to go all CSI and shit on it and make out what their last thoughts could have been and post pictures and thoughts online.
I figure this could potentially earn me a Pulitzer. We'll see.
5. 365 days (and nights) of baby-wipes and lotion
Uhm... I guess this is pretty self-explanatory?
*****
But of course, even if I do decide to take on another blog, I would never abandon this one! I've put too much time and effort into this, besides, I'm pretty lazy that I'd doubt I'd have the energy to figure out how to make another. Also, I've tried to make one in the past but was forced to put it down before I made the move public.
*****
Wow, structure notwithstanding, who would've guessed I'd be able to add another post that's, well, barely worth publishing?
Maybe I need some *gasp!* "structure".
*****
I was having a conversation with a friend of mine, about maybe setting some parameters for this here blog, you know, like a general topic or something. At the time, it seemed preposterous, it was the freedom to blab about anything and everything that gave me the idea to set up this blog in the first place, and I'm supposed to define boundaries?
But then, something (or nothing, rather) happened and I'm all out of things to write about. What the...?
It all starts with choosing what to write about, a thought comes into my head, and I start on it, then my ADD kicks in and another thought takes its place, thereby displacing any progress that was made on prior topic. I start writing about this new thing and before long I'm off blabbering about something entirely different. It's a tough process, and alcohol-aided writing doesn't seem to help me focus, either.
I've heard of this phenomenon before, or maybe it was just a quote I heard, going something like "...he who has the freedom to do anything ends up doing nothing..." or some other crap. Is this what they call a paradox or is it an oxymoron? I really can't bother myself to analyze the difference. Maybe I should have paid more attention to my language classes.
*****
Speaking of language classes, I think I remember the reason why I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have: my freshman high school english teacher was hot. This, on the part of the whole high school academe is (was?) a mistake. Year on year, hordes of high school graduates with a weak grasp of the English language manage to squeak past the bare minimum requirements and diminish the collective grammatical intellect of the population in general. Then again, better flunk English (which is only a second language in this country) than Math. Heck, my Math teachers were fugly and yet I failed in that anyway. How low could my grades have sunk further if my Math teacher was hot?
*****
Wait, what was the original topic? Oh yeah, structure. Sorry about that, damn attention span.
So this structure thing, it now seems to be a viable solution. At least if I lay down some general topic, then maybe I could have more focus and actually write something that makes some sense. I've actually went as far as listing down some topics for my future consideration. I've written them down as possible blog titles:
1. Personal Destitution 101
Where I basically write about how I manage to spend way beyond my means and yet still survive (barely). This is so not Self-help.
2. Living with laundry
Basically, this will touch on the intricacies that I have learned (and am still learning) from doing my own laundry. From reviews of different detergents to the effects of hot and cold rinsing on polyesters.
If ever I do roll out this particular blog, feel free to hunt me down whack me in the head with a 9-iron. Please?
3. The most awful and boring places on Earth
Every travel blog I've read have the words 'amazing' or 'tranquil' or 'exciting' in them. Mine's gonna have phrases such as 'rat-infested' and 'what a waste of time' and 'ugliest hookers, ever' instead.
4. Before the "thud"
Now this is part journalism and part fiction. Since I see an awful lot of roadkill in a week, the plan is to spot roadkill, stop and take a picture of it (without being roadkill, myself), try to go all CSI and shit on it and make out what their last thoughts could have been and post pictures and thoughts online.
I figure this could potentially earn me a Pulitzer. We'll see.
5. 365 days (and nights) of baby-wipes and lotion
Uhm... I guess this is pretty self-explanatory?
*****
But of course, even if I do decide to take on another blog, I would never abandon this one! I've put too much time and effort into this, besides, I'm pretty lazy that I'd doubt I'd have the energy to figure out how to make another. Also, I've tried to make one in the past but was forced to put it down before I made the move public.
*****
Wow, structure notwithstanding, who would've guessed I'd be able to add another post that's, well, barely worth publishing?
Monday, January 17, 2011
What a waste of cola...
It's one of those nights, when things just don't go your way.
I slept most of the day (and early evening) away, and then bedtime comes, but I'm not sleepy, of course. I look into the refrigerator, get some ice, some cola, then turning around to get the rhum, realize that I'm all out. Crud, why did I forget to buy a bottle?
So no rhum tonight, just have to settle with Mr. Johnny Walker I guess. I drink the coke and pour in the whisky (no "e", apparently because it's Scotch). This will have to do.
"Does it really matter, which kind of alcohol you drink?"
Of course it does, silly! We're not in college anymore, that time when you had to make do with whatever your leftover lunch money will get you. (mostly cheap gin and cheap juice, I remember) However it does vary from person to person, one man's poison is another's toilet water, I guess. Me? I happen to be partial to either whisky or beer, but there are a lot of layers in between.
To explain:
Whisky/Whiskey, on the rocks, is for the quiet celebration, the kind where I sit back and think to yourself 'That was some really good porn!' or 'Gee, that was a fun batch of laundry'. I don't drink it just for kicks, that would be irresponsible and a waste of some perfectly good (and expensive) alcohol. It doesn't affect my memory as much, which makes it ideal when I want to play out the good times in my head over and over again.
Beer, on the other side of the spectrum, is the anytime, anywhere, any occasion drink of choice. Hanging out with friends? Lite beers. Watching Hazel or Sapphire dance their way through college? Pale Pilsen. Catching your alma mater get pummeled in basketball on the telly, an extra stong Red Horse, for crying out loud. Really, beer is the work horse of a working man's day.
Brandy is really special. It's supposed to be drunk raw, neat, without anything pretentious, sans the frills. Perfect for a hard day at work, or when that total bitch you were dating suddenly breaks up with you. Nice and cheap, too, just how you're feeling when you're sitting by the gutter wallowing in self-pity.
Wine is perfect for watching a chick flick on DVD. See those tall, delicate wine glasses? What else could make you feel like you're the biggest pussy in the world? Red, white, whatever, when you see me drinking wine, hand me that box of Kleenex. Damn, I feel all bloated and ugly just writing about it. It is quite useful though on a date, when you need to get in touch with your feminine side to get that 'Wow, you really get me! You're not like all those other men.' reaction. Me, I just keep handy a flask of Whisky for after those really, really, REALLY good dates.
Vodka or Gin is a really great way to get hammered. Whenever I feel all caveman and shit, this is definitely the way to go. No, I won't need juice to wash it down, thank you. Just give it to me straight and we're gonna have a good time.
Rhum/rum, usually with a 3:1 ratio of cola, is my choice when I want to just chill and listen to music, sorta like tonight. The cola sorta perks up my senses, but is tamed down by the alcohol. Of course, if I'm perked-up already, I simply opt to just shoot it straight.
"What about those mixed drinks? Like margaritas?"
Hmm, when I turn out to be gay, I'll let you know. However, I have had a taste of the stuff, I'll admit. You see sometimes, Hazel/Sapphire likes to order a batch of the stuff and lets me try them. It's kinda hard to say no when it's all for a good cause. Also, when my date is all curious with names like "Blow Job" or "Sex on the Beach", I throw out my wine and just go with the flow.
I draw the line at tequila though, I'm kinda allergic to it. By allergic, I mean after 4 shots of the stuff, I'm passed out with absolutely no memory of having a 5th shot and thereafter. I dunno, it's probably some complex chemistry, and I hate chemistry.
Hmm, my glass seems to have gone empty. Sorry guys, gotta get myself a refill.
I slept most of the day (and early evening) away, and then bedtime comes, but I'm not sleepy, of course. I look into the refrigerator, get some ice, some cola, then turning around to get the rhum, realize that I'm all out. Crud, why did I forget to buy a bottle?
So no rhum tonight, just have to settle with Mr. Johnny Walker I guess. I drink the coke and pour in the whisky (no "e", apparently because it's Scotch). This will have to do.
"Does it really matter, which kind of alcohol you drink?"
Of course it does, silly! We're not in college anymore, that time when you had to make do with whatever your leftover lunch money will get you. (mostly cheap gin and cheap juice, I remember) However it does vary from person to person, one man's poison is another's toilet water, I guess. Me? I happen to be partial to either whisky or beer, but there are a lot of layers in between.
To explain:
Whisky/Whiskey, on the rocks, is for the quiet celebration, the kind where I sit back and think to yourself 'That was some really good porn!' or 'Gee, that was a fun batch of laundry'. I don't drink it just for kicks, that would be irresponsible and a waste of some perfectly good (and expensive) alcohol. It doesn't affect my memory as much, which makes it ideal when I want to play out the good times in my head over and over again.
Beer, on the other side of the spectrum, is the anytime, anywhere, any occasion drink of choice. Hanging out with friends? Lite beers. Watching Hazel or Sapphire dance their way through college? Pale Pilsen. Catching your alma mater get pummeled in basketball on the telly, an extra stong Red Horse, for crying out loud. Really, beer is the work horse of a working man's day.
Brandy is really special. It's supposed to be drunk raw, neat, without anything pretentious, sans the frills. Perfect for a hard day at work, or when that total bitch you were dating suddenly breaks up with you. Nice and cheap, too, just how you're feeling when you're sitting by the gutter wallowing in self-pity.
Wine is perfect for watching a chick flick on DVD. See those tall, delicate wine glasses? What else could make you feel like you're the biggest pussy in the world? Red, white, whatever, when you see me drinking wine, hand me that box of Kleenex. Damn, I feel all bloated and ugly just writing about it. It is quite useful though on a date, when you need to get in touch with your feminine side to get that 'Wow, you really get me! You're not like all those other men.' reaction. Me, I just keep handy a flask of Whisky for after those really, really, REALLY good dates.
Vodka or Gin is a really great way to get hammered. Whenever I feel all caveman and shit, this is definitely the way to go. No, I won't need juice to wash it down, thank you. Just give it to me straight and we're gonna have a good time.
Rhum/rum, usually with a 3:1 ratio of cola, is my choice when I want to just chill and listen to music, sorta like tonight. The cola sorta perks up my senses, but is tamed down by the alcohol. Of course, if I'm perked-up already, I simply opt to just shoot it straight.
"What about those mixed drinks? Like margaritas?"
Hmm, when I turn out to be gay, I'll let you know. However, I have had a taste of the stuff, I'll admit. You see sometimes, Hazel/Sapphire likes to order a batch of the stuff and lets me try them. It's kinda hard to say no when it's all for a good cause. Also, when my date is all curious with names like "Blow Job" or "Sex on the Beach", I throw out my wine and just go with the flow.
I draw the line at tequila though, I'm kinda allergic to it. By allergic, I mean after 4 shots of the stuff, I'm passed out with absolutely no memory of having a 5th shot and thereafter. I dunno, it's probably some complex chemistry, and I hate chemistry.
Hmm, my glass seems to have gone empty. Sorry guys, gotta get myself a refill.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Loan? What loans?
Well, I'm bored, hence a post. Unfortunately, (for you, mostly) I've queued up an eclectic playlist on Media Player:
1. "Don't Go Away" - Oasis
2. "Teardrops On Oy Guitar" - Taylor Swift
3. "If It's Love" - Train
4. "Tiny Dancer" - Elton John
5. "Me Japanese Boy I Love You" - Burt Bacharach
6. "Nocturne No. 15 - Op. 55 No. 1 in F Minor" - Fryderyk Chopin
7. "Dig" - Incubus
8. "Mata Ng Diyos" - Wolfgang (Which kinda crept into my consciousness, thanks Nolan)
It's fairly certain now, this is going to be one of my worst, most disjointed posts ever.
*****
"Wait, is that Chopin up there?"
Yes it is. Contrary to what others think of me, I do listen to the occasional piano, sometimes even the whole orchestra. This phenomenon I can only attribute to growing up watching too many episodes of "Looney Tunes", fueled even further by my new year's adventure to Hong Kong's Disneyland. This particular piece, however, I'm pretty sure I heard on a movie or two. Maybe even some really deep drama chick flick.
*****
Was doing my groceries this afternoon, a decision made while pondering where the heck my money flew away to. Apparently, the guys over at McDonald's, KFC, Starbucks and Jollibee have been making a killing off me, which can't really be good for my financial well-being.
I did come upon a small fortune recently, which is always great. But now, I'm having some trouble deciding what to do with it. The first thing that came to my mind when I looked at the cheque was to mentally divide the sum amount by the price of a beer. That's a lot of beers. Of course, a man can't live on beer alone (which is a shame, really), so I had to set aside a portion of my fortune (that rhymes!) to some other stuff, like detergents, bar chow, a nice massage (with some extras), and Hello Panda biscuits.
First things first, though, I have to convert this little piece of paper to a lot of little pieces of paper with heads of dead presidents and heroes on them. Sadly, that's the difficult part. I hate going into banks. Everytime I go into a bank, they take my money away. These bean counters, they're the worst! First, they make you take a number and sit there, with your hard earned money in your hand, waiting for some scum to come in, hold the bank up and take your money. This goes on for a long time, half an hour in some cases, even longer on busy days. Then, just when you're sure that the fellow in the demin jacket beside you has a gun in his pants, the teller calls out your number and takes your money anyway.
Sure sometimes they give you back your money, but it always feels lighter, doesn't it? You know that someone's been having their way with your money, using it however they please, wiping their asses with it. Then when you come begging to get it back from them, you have to line up all over again and smile when they give what's rightfully yours. It's like lending out your pristine condition Playboy magazine with Erika Eleniak on the cover to a buddy of yours in high school and getting it back a year later looking like some sorry piece of soggy toilet paper.
*****
Eventually, I have to go to a bank, though. I've decided to open another account with another bank and use this for my future savings. So I'm keeping half of my small fortune in there, while I spend the other half on totally useless things and frivolous encounters.
"Don't you have loans and stuff?"
Of course I do, I also have a short attention span, which conveniently lets me forget this fact all too easily. Thanks for reminding me.
Loans? What loans?
Kidding of course (just in case Archie is reading this). A portion of the money goes to charity, namely the guys over at Citigroup (which has fallen on bad times, I hear). Quite a large portion, actually. Which sucks.
*****
Finally, I got that Starbucks planner. I intend to use it this year, as everyone else I know already has one. (Plus, it's past Christmas, so I'm not feeling all gift-giving-like anymore) Was surprised that it was a damn heavy thing, I mean, who the heck wants to lug around a notebook that weighs as much as an encyclopedia? Can't they just give out a Starbucks PDA or something? I'm sure I've sunk enough dough in that place to buy a dozen of those, would it hurt them to give a little back?
Anyway, I filled out the blank space for my name, my home number, but was at a loss what to put down as my mobile number. You see, my current mobile phone belongs to the company I currently work for, which I won't be working for in less than a month's time. And since I don't have my own mobile phone, I don't have anything to jot down there, do I? The good news, though, is that my future employer has promised to give me a new mobile phone, which is great. In the meantime, though, what do I do?
Say I meet a hot girl, and we exchange numbers. Handing out my home number seems so Neanderthal these days, right?
"Wow a landline? How retro!" Yeah baby, now if you'll come back with me to my Delorean, maybe we can still catch Doogie Howser on television! (Yeah Doogie Howser, Neil Patrick Harris, you know, Barney Stintson of How I Met Your Mother? No? Doesn't ring any bells? How old are you again?)
1. "Don't Go Away" - Oasis
2. "Teardrops On Oy Guitar" - Taylor Swift
3. "If It's Love" - Train
4. "Tiny Dancer" - Elton John
5. "Me Japanese Boy I Love You" - Burt Bacharach
6. "Nocturne No. 15 - Op. 55 No. 1 in F Minor" - Fryderyk Chopin
7. "Dig" - Incubus
8. "Mata Ng Diyos" - Wolfgang (Which kinda crept into my consciousness, thanks Nolan)
It's fairly certain now, this is going to be one of my worst, most disjointed posts ever.
*****
"Wait, is that Chopin up there?"
Yes it is. Contrary to what others think of me, I do listen to the occasional piano, sometimes even the whole orchestra. This phenomenon I can only attribute to growing up watching too many episodes of "Looney Tunes", fueled even further by my new year's adventure to Hong Kong's Disneyland. This particular piece, however, I'm pretty sure I heard on a movie or two. Maybe even some really deep drama chick flick.
*****
Was doing my groceries this afternoon, a decision made while pondering where the heck my money flew away to. Apparently, the guys over at McDonald's, KFC, Starbucks and Jollibee have been making a killing off me, which can't really be good for my financial well-being.
I did come upon a small fortune recently, which is always great. But now, I'm having some trouble deciding what to do with it. The first thing that came to my mind when I looked at the cheque was to mentally divide the sum amount by the price of a beer. That's a lot of beers. Of course, a man can't live on beer alone (which is a shame, really), so I had to set aside a portion of my fortune (that rhymes!) to some other stuff, like detergents, bar chow, a nice massage (with some extras), and Hello Panda biscuits.
First things first, though, I have to convert this little piece of paper to a lot of little pieces of paper with heads of dead presidents and heroes on them. Sadly, that's the difficult part. I hate going into banks. Everytime I go into a bank, they take my money away. These bean counters, they're the worst! First, they make you take a number and sit there, with your hard earned money in your hand, waiting for some scum to come in, hold the bank up and take your money. This goes on for a long time, half an hour in some cases, even longer on busy days. Then, just when you're sure that the fellow in the demin jacket beside you has a gun in his pants, the teller calls out your number and takes your money anyway.
Sure sometimes they give you back your money, but it always feels lighter, doesn't it? You know that someone's been having their way with your money, using it however they please, wiping their asses with it. Then when you come begging to get it back from them, you have to line up all over again and smile when they give what's rightfully yours. It's like lending out your pristine condition Playboy magazine with Erika Eleniak on the cover to a buddy of yours in high school and getting it back a year later looking like some sorry piece of soggy toilet paper.
*****
Eventually, I have to go to a bank, though. I've decided to open another account with another bank and use this for my future savings. So I'm keeping half of my small fortune in there, while I spend the other half on totally useless things and frivolous encounters.
"Don't you have loans and stuff?"
Of course I do, I also have a short attention span, which conveniently lets me forget this fact all too easily. Thanks for reminding me.
Loans? What loans?
Kidding of course (just in case Archie is reading this). A portion of the money goes to charity, namely the guys over at Citigroup (which has fallen on bad times, I hear). Quite a large portion, actually. Which sucks.
*****
Finally, I got that Starbucks planner. I intend to use it this year, as everyone else I know already has one. (Plus, it's past Christmas, so I'm not feeling all gift-giving-like anymore) Was surprised that it was a damn heavy thing, I mean, who the heck wants to lug around a notebook that weighs as much as an encyclopedia? Can't they just give out a Starbucks PDA or something? I'm sure I've sunk enough dough in that place to buy a dozen of those, would it hurt them to give a little back?
Anyway, I filled out the blank space for my name, my home number, but was at a loss what to put down as my mobile number. You see, my current mobile phone belongs to the company I currently work for, which I won't be working for in less than a month's time. And since I don't have my own mobile phone, I don't have anything to jot down there, do I? The good news, though, is that my future employer has promised to give me a new mobile phone, which is great. In the meantime, though, what do I do?
Say I meet a hot girl, and we exchange numbers. Handing out my home number seems so Neanderthal these days, right?
"Wow a landline? How retro!" Yeah baby, now if you'll come back with me to my Delorean, maybe we can still catch Doogie Howser on television! (Yeah Doogie Howser, Neil Patrick Harris, you know, Barney Stintson of How I Met Your Mother? No? Doesn't ring any bells? How old are you again?)
Monday, January 10, 2011
Dream on
A million thoughts ran through my mind whilst sipping my usual americano a few hours ago. Okay, a million is quite an overstatement, I can't even count that high, let's pare it down to a couple of thousand (which is still kinda doubtful anyway given my short attention span).
So... a couple of thousand thoughts ran through my mind some hours ago, this specie of separation anxiety is getting to me with my impending change of workplace. I can't help thinking of all the things I'm going to leave behind, the people, the building I helped construct (well, not literally), the lunches I stole, that stupid desk of mine with the squeaky drawer, the loose screw in my office chair that keeps poking my butt, Kermit that clunky green car which has taken me almost everywhere. I guess I'm gonna miss almost everything in that place, even staring at my boss' nose hairs while he's snoozing through my weekly report. I guess 8 years have a way of tatooing themselves on you.
28 more days till my resignations comes into effect, and I'm already having cold feet about leaving.
You try to push those thoughts away, but then fear rears its ugly head. What if I fail miserably at my new job? What if I don't like it? What if everyone there's a snooty bastard? What if they frown upon people who enjoy stealing lunches? What if the office coffee is (gasp!) decaf?
I call up someone I knew who used to work for my future employers, try to get some insights into what lay ahead of me. "Really, you're gonna work for them? I hope you're all healthy and shit, it's a whole new level of stress in there!" Crap, not exactly the encouraging words I was looking for. "But the pay's definitely top rate." There, that's better.
Wait, what the heck's happened to me? Have I become a slave to the almighty peso? Am I a sell-out? Did I just sign my soul over to the capitalist devil out to fuel my greed and strange need for frothy beers and cappuccinos (which essentially leads you straight to hell, I've been told)? Just a few years ago, I was a proud citizen working for a local company waging the quixotic war and now look at me, counting beans and thinking of getting myself my first dark gray suit. Oh no!
I wonder, is it too late? Could I still back away from the deal?
Of course I could. But I know I won't. Not because I'm not nationalistic, but because this is a means to a greater good, to that boyhood dream...
I had a dream, and in that dream I'm at a bar, surrounded by hundreds of hot, scantily clad bimbos, waiting for their turn to feed me grapes and stuff!
I had a dream, and in that dream all the faucets, the shower, heck even the toilet was overflowing with draft beer!
I had a dream, and in that dream it was raining pizzas and burgers and lechon and nachos and marshmallows and ice cream and fishballs!
I had a dream, and in that dream I was naked, and waiting for the light to turn green, and everyone at the intersection was staring at me, and pointing at my shriveled little pee-pee, which kinda sucked.
If people call me a sell out, so be it. If people jeer and call me a traitor and a fool, so be it. If people look down upon me and think that I've let everyone down, so be it. If hot women tempt me and do all sorts of sensual things to me because I've now got all this money and shit, then so be it. In the end, I'll still be the same boy who had a dream, and who did something rather than do nothing for the sake of that dream. '... I faced it all, and I stood tall, and did it.... My Way!'
So... a couple of thousand thoughts ran through my mind some hours ago, this specie of separation anxiety is getting to me with my impending change of workplace. I can't help thinking of all the things I'm going to leave behind, the people, the building I helped construct (well, not literally), the lunches I stole, that stupid desk of mine with the squeaky drawer, the loose screw in my office chair that keeps poking my butt, Kermit that clunky green car which has taken me almost everywhere. I guess I'm gonna miss almost everything in that place, even staring at my boss' nose hairs while he's snoozing through my weekly report. I guess 8 years have a way of tatooing themselves on you.
28 more days till my resignations comes into effect, and I'm already having cold feet about leaving.
You try to push those thoughts away, but then fear rears its ugly head. What if I fail miserably at my new job? What if I don't like it? What if everyone there's a snooty bastard? What if they frown upon people who enjoy stealing lunches? What if the office coffee is (gasp!) decaf?
I call up someone I knew who used to work for my future employers, try to get some insights into what lay ahead of me. "Really, you're gonna work for them? I hope you're all healthy and shit, it's a whole new level of stress in there!" Crap, not exactly the encouraging words I was looking for. "But the pay's definitely top rate." There, that's better.
Wait, what the heck's happened to me? Have I become a slave to the almighty peso? Am I a sell-out? Did I just sign my soul over to the capitalist devil out to fuel my greed and strange need for frothy beers and cappuccinos (which essentially leads you straight to hell, I've been told)? Just a few years ago, I was a proud citizen working for a local company waging the quixotic war and now look at me, counting beans and thinking of getting myself my first dark gray suit. Oh no!
I wonder, is it too late? Could I still back away from the deal?
Of course I could. But I know I won't. Not because I'm not nationalistic, but because this is a means to a greater good, to that boyhood dream...
I had a dream, and in that dream I'm at a bar, surrounded by hundreds of hot, scantily clad bimbos, waiting for their turn to feed me grapes and stuff!
I had a dream, and in that dream all the faucets, the shower, heck even the toilet was overflowing with draft beer!
I had a dream, and in that dream it was raining pizzas and burgers and lechon and nachos and marshmallows and ice cream and fishballs!
I had a dream, and in that dream I was naked, and waiting for the light to turn green, and everyone at the intersection was staring at me, and pointing at my shriveled little pee-pee, which kinda sucked.
If people call me a sell out, so be it. If people jeer and call me a traitor and a fool, so be it. If people look down upon me and think that I've let everyone down, so be it. If hot women tempt me and do all sorts of sensual things to me because I've now got all this money and shit, then so be it. In the end, I'll still be the same boy who had a dream, and who did something rather than do nothing for the sake of that dream. '... I faced it all, and I stood tall, and did it.... My Way!'
Friday, January 7, 2011
Breaking a heart
Whoa... no no no, don't get the title wrong, this isn't one of those "emo" posts, I swear! Come back!
I swear, really!
Whew! I guess I almost lost you there. This is a different kind of heart-breaking. It isn't the typical mushy "...These foolish games are tearing me apart, And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart..." crap that Jewel describes in her song. This is more of the "I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. YOU BROKE MY HEART!" kinda deal. Scary, I know.
*****
You see, this morning, I finally did it. I quit my job.
You heard me.
After weeks and months of soul-searching, computing, analysis and coin-tossing, I decided that the right opportunity had come along and I was a fool not to take it. I had a job offer sitting on my lap from another company, with all the goodies that I had asked Santa for, and the prospect of a brighter career ahead.
Out of respect, I called the big boss I was working for the past 8 years on his mobile phone. He sounded like he was at the golf course, which may be the best time to tell him.
"Hi sir, finishing up your game?"
"Hi Hap! Still on the front 9 and doing great. What's up?" Hmm, could I possibly ruin the back 9 with the news? Maybe now's not the time to tell him?
"I've come to a decision, sir."
"Oh really? I hope you're staying with us, Hap. I believe our counter-offer is impressive, don't you think?" Gulp.
"Uh, yes sir. Mighty impressive. However..."
"Uh oh."
"...I'm inclined to take the other offer, sir."
"That just breaks my heart, Hap."
Suddenly, I had my mobile phone in an icy death grip, was the slobbering kiss-of-death next?
*****
In my head, everything seemed eerily quiet. Had word gotten out already? Here I was, exposed and vulnerable inside the office. Everyone being nice to me, as they do anyone whose days were numbered, probably. I could only guess, of course, no one has ever went against "the family" and lived to tell about it, to my memory. 30 more days of this before I'm a free man, alive and free, hopefully.
Had I made the right decision? I was beginning to question the wisdom of my choice. (Which happens all too often, by the way)
"Traitor!" The word echoed loudly in my head, but it seems only I heard it. Everyone was scurrying around, minding their own business, unmindful of me.
Then, the boss' son comes up to me. "I heard, Hap. That's just too bad."
Wait, what? Too bad how, exactly? Too bad I was leaving the family or something else, something more... permanent? I turn around, half-expecting Luca behind me with a leather gloves and a wire, or Furio with a wooden bat. Nothing there, for now.
How the heck did I get into this mess anyway? Is it my obsession with being "made"? But after 8 years of unquestioned loyalty to the family, to the Corleones and Sopranos, was I now being perceived as a threat?! Well, it's all my fault, I guess. I should've expected this to happen. Male lions, banished from the pride, can only get back into one by winning a challenge against the alpha and devouring their young. I had mistakenly identified diplomacy as a strength rather than a weakness.
Is it too late to back out? Could I say sorry and get things back to the way they were? History says otherwise, though. Fredo thought he was family again, until he went fishing and became fish food. Same for Pussy. Yeah, there's no point in turning back now, I've chosen my side and must stick by it, man up.
Note to self: Leave the cannoli.
I swear, really!
Whew! I guess I almost lost you there. This is a different kind of heart-breaking. It isn't the typical mushy "...These foolish games are tearing me apart, And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart..." crap that Jewel describes in her song. This is more of the "I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. YOU BROKE MY HEART!" kinda deal. Scary, I know.
*****
You see, this morning, I finally did it. I quit my job.
You heard me.
After weeks and months of soul-searching, computing, analysis and coin-tossing, I decided that the right opportunity had come along and I was a fool not to take it. I had a job offer sitting on my lap from another company, with all the goodies that I had asked Santa for, and the prospect of a brighter career ahead.
Out of respect, I called the big boss I was working for the past 8 years on his mobile phone. He sounded like he was at the golf course, which may be the best time to tell him.
"Hi sir, finishing up your game?"
"Hi Hap! Still on the front 9 and doing great. What's up?" Hmm, could I possibly ruin the back 9 with the news? Maybe now's not the time to tell him?
"I've come to a decision, sir."
"Oh really? I hope you're staying with us, Hap. I believe our counter-offer is impressive, don't you think?" Gulp.
"Uh, yes sir. Mighty impressive. However..."
"Uh oh."
"...I'm inclined to take the other offer, sir."
"That just breaks my heart, Hap."
Suddenly, I had my mobile phone in an icy death grip, was the slobbering kiss-of-death next?
*****
In my head, everything seemed eerily quiet. Had word gotten out already? Here I was, exposed and vulnerable inside the office. Everyone being nice to me, as they do anyone whose days were numbered, probably. I could only guess, of course, no one has ever went against "the family" and lived to tell about it, to my memory. 30 more days of this before I'm a free man, alive and free, hopefully.
Had I made the right decision? I was beginning to question the wisdom of my choice. (Which happens all too often, by the way)
"Traitor!" The word echoed loudly in my head, but it seems only I heard it. Everyone was scurrying around, minding their own business, unmindful of me.
Then, the boss' son comes up to me. "I heard, Hap. That's just too bad."
Wait, what? Too bad how, exactly? Too bad I was leaving the family or something else, something more... permanent? I turn around, half-expecting Luca behind me with a leather gloves and a wire, or Furio with a wooden bat. Nothing there, for now.
How the heck did I get into this mess anyway? Is it my obsession with being "made"? But after 8 years of unquestioned loyalty to the family, to the Corleones and Sopranos, was I now being perceived as a threat?! Well, it's all my fault, I guess. I should've expected this to happen. Male lions, banished from the pride, can only get back into one by winning a challenge against the alpha and devouring their young. I had mistakenly identified diplomacy as a strength rather than a weakness.
Is it too late to back out? Could I say sorry and get things back to the way they were? History says otherwise, though. Fredo thought he was family again, until he went fishing and became fish food. Same for Pussy. Yeah, there's no point in turning back now, I've chosen my side and must stick by it, man up.
Note to self: Leave the cannoli.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Coco the Psycho Coffee Maker
Everything starts out great, doesn't it? Until it isn't. Then it all becomes horrendous, a downward spiral of compromises and excuses and that desperate search for a silver lining. And yet, time and again, we almost certainly allow ourselves to blindly fall into the same old trap. And there's never any getting used to it.
You probably, no, certainly have no idea what the heck I'm blabbing about over here, huh? As vague as the preceding paragraph may be, it is, I do declare, an all encompassing truth.
Take for example the issue with weight. Everyone has one, I presume. No one is really that comfortable with their body. Then, just when you're on the cusp of being happy with yourself, you suddenly fall off the wagon and indulge. Then it's all downhill from there.
My friends, welcome to the post-holiday blues!
*****
Right now I should be fast asleep. An early day awaits, lots of things to do, not a lot of time to spare. And yet, here I am, in front of my crappy desktop, filling out a post. Why do I do this? I have no idea. Suddenly the urge to tap tap tap on the keys hits me, then when I do, nothing comes to mind, which in no way stops the urge. It's like a curse of sorts, really. This happens to me a lot. At certain periods in my life, I owned a guitar. And then out of nowhere, I suddenly feel the it's existence, and long to play a tune. I take it out and run my fingers through the fretboard, and then my mind goes blank.
Maybe I've some trouble maintaining focus or something?
The real tragedy is, just when I start to lose focus, and decide to stuff the guitar back in its case, I instantly regain an interest in it. Regret sets in, the unforgiving and insatiable bitch that it is.
*****
Whilst on the subject of personal peeves, it might be a good time to introduce you to my psychotic coffee maker. This small machine has the ability to predict the future, as it does every morning. It's one of those cheapo drip coffee makers, a gift from Time Magazine for my having taken out a subscription. I call it Coco, though I doubt if it even cares for a name.
Each morning, I wake up and make coffee with Coco, only I'm not really making coffee, but trying to catch a glimpse of what kind of day awaits me. On really good days, it works perfectly, churning out a perfect cup of joe that gives me the right amount of perkiness. Then there are so-so days, wherein Coco makes weird noises, sounding like a vulture regurgitating a full meal of roadkill for its vulture-chicks. On these days I could hardly keep myself awake at work, I just go through the motions and put everything off for the next day. On days when the world hits you squarely in the face with a dozen or so curveballs, Coco doesn't make coffee at all. It just huffs and puffs smoke and kills off any interest in breakfast. That's when I know I'd be better off calling in sick and just feel miserable.
Obviously, it could just be the other way around. Maybe Coco, instead of predicting the future, is actually shaping it up for me. In the grand scheme of things, Coco is the puppeteer, pulling all of my strings, telling me what to do.
Now, if that were the case, that Coco is pre-conditioning me each morning according to its whims and follies, then I'm the bigger fool for letting myself be conned by it.
But the problem is, what do I do about it? Do I get another, more stable coffee maker? A French press, perhaps? I can't be sure, what if the new coffee maker is a bigger nut that Coco is? I'd be doomed for sure. So, for the time being, I'm empowering Coco to have its way with me. I'm just too lazy to fight it.
You probably, no, certainly have no idea what the heck I'm blabbing about over here, huh? As vague as the preceding paragraph may be, it is, I do declare, an all encompassing truth.
Take for example the issue with weight. Everyone has one, I presume. No one is really that comfortable with their body. Then, just when you're on the cusp of being happy with yourself, you suddenly fall off the wagon and indulge. Then it's all downhill from there.
My friends, welcome to the post-holiday blues!
*****
Right now I should be fast asleep. An early day awaits, lots of things to do, not a lot of time to spare. And yet, here I am, in front of my crappy desktop, filling out a post. Why do I do this? I have no idea. Suddenly the urge to tap tap tap on the keys hits me, then when I do, nothing comes to mind, which in no way stops the urge. It's like a curse of sorts, really. This happens to me a lot. At certain periods in my life, I owned a guitar. And then out of nowhere, I suddenly feel the it's existence, and long to play a tune. I take it out and run my fingers through the fretboard, and then my mind goes blank.
Maybe I've some trouble maintaining focus or something?
The real tragedy is, just when I start to lose focus, and decide to stuff the guitar back in its case, I instantly regain an interest in it. Regret sets in, the unforgiving and insatiable bitch that it is.
*****
Whilst on the subject of personal peeves, it might be a good time to introduce you to my psychotic coffee maker. This small machine has the ability to predict the future, as it does every morning. It's one of those cheapo drip coffee makers, a gift from Time Magazine for my having taken out a subscription. I call it Coco, though I doubt if it even cares for a name.
Each morning, I wake up and make coffee with Coco, only I'm not really making coffee, but trying to catch a glimpse of what kind of day awaits me. On really good days, it works perfectly, churning out a perfect cup of joe that gives me the right amount of perkiness. Then there are so-so days, wherein Coco makes weird noises, sounding like a vulture regurgitating a full meal of roadkill for its vulture-chicks. On these days I could hardly keep myself awake at work, I just go through the motions and put everything off for the next day. On days when the world hits you squarely in the face with a dozen or so curveballs, Coco doesn't make coffee at all. It just huffs and puffs smoke and kills off any interest in breakfast. That's when I know I'd be better off calling in sick and just feel miserable.
Obviously, it could just be the other way around. Maybe Coco, instead of predicting the future, is actually shaping it up for me. In the grand scheme of things, Coco is the puppeteer, pulling all of my strings, telling me what to do.
Now, if that were the case, that Coco is pre-conditioning me each morning according to its whims and follies, then I'm the bigger fool for letting myself be conned by it.
But the problem is, what do I do about it? Do I get another, more stable coffee maker? A French press, perhaps? I can't be sure, what if the new coffee maker is a bigger nut that Coco is? I'd be doomed for sure. So, for the time being, I'm empowering Coco to have its way with me. I'm just too lazy to fight it.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Another year of the same crap?
So I just came back from my annual new year's trip. This time to another country. Really weird considering that I never thought I'd ever work up enough energy (or money) to actually do it. But well, this is a new decade, after all. And with it, new things to try out. Yes, this is that stage of my life wherein I resolve to try new stuff out and actually have goals and resolutions.
But what things? I have no idea yet, which makes it all the more exciting, don't you think? There are some things that are already lined up in the short term, though, which actually comprise most of the year's resolutions. If you'd like to know what they are, I've listed them down for you:
1. Travel to a new country
Check. I went to China (Hong Kong, actually, but as I understand it, it is already a part of China) for new year's. Then in a couple of months, I'm going to Taiwan, which I'm not sure could be categorized as a new country. But I've booked a flight there anyway, despite not having enough money to do anything but sit my ass on the airport, waiting for the next flight home. Hopefully I can muster enough funds to actually step into a 7-11 and buy something, maybe a bottle of water and a club sandwich. I'm gonna bring a stick of gum anyway in case things don't work out financially.
2. Get a new job
Well, that's actually also in the works. As I understand it, I've already been promised a job offer in another company. When that offer will actually come, that is the current question. Will the offer be acceptable to myself? I've no idea until I actually see it. But, well, you get the idea.
3. 30 pounds
Of what? Of myself. That's how much I need to lose to be able to wear that darn t-shirt I bought myself while in China. Ambitious, ain't it? I figure that itself should keep me busy for the next 6 months or so. But what if I fail? Does a perfectly functional t-shirt go to waste? Of course not. I've gotten the number of a great tailor who could make the appropriate alterations to the shirt so I can fit myself into it. I'll let you know how it goes in 6 months.
4. Kill off all the cockroaches in my house
Now this is probably the toughest one yet. Killing off a species that has outlived almost everyone else on the planet in a year's time. Of course, an alternative statement would be "Keep the cockroaches out of the house", obviously more realistic. The plan involves a heck of a lot of plaster and tape, and finding out where the heck these darn insects are coming from. Then I'm gonna get me a hamster and train it to hunt down the ones that make it past the first line of defense.
If all else fails, I'm gonna just move the heck out of the house and into a nice little condo high up in the stratosphere. I figure anything above the 20th floor should be safe enough. If any cockroach can flap his little wings that high up, they should be too tired to pose any serious threat to Mooky the cockroach eating hamster.
5. Kill something for food
Now this may seem a bit morbid, but don't worry, I'm planning to start slow. I've been thinking of planting tomatoes at home, and maybe carrots. After I've been able to successfully "hunt" and "slaughter" these down, then I can move on to larger prey, such as watermelons or a bitter gourd. I might need to enlist Mooky's help with these, so I guess I'd have to share some with him. But eventually, I should be able to move up the food chain until I reach the point when I'm "stalking" a chicken.
You know what, I just realized that these 5 should be enough for a year. Yeah, any more and I doubt I'd find the time to sit around and watch television all day. Anyway, wish me luck!
But what things? I have no idea yet, which makes it all the more exciting, don't you think? There are some things that are already lined up in the short term, though, which actually comprise most of the year's resolutions. If you'd like to know what they are, I've listed them down for you:
1. Travel to a new country
Check. I went to China (Hong Kong, actually, but as I understand it, it is already a part of China) for new year's. Then in a couple of months, I'm going to Taiwan, which I'm not sure could be categorized as a new country. But I've booked a flight there anyway, despite not having enough money to do anything but sit my ass on the airport, waiting for the next flight home. Hopefully I can muster enough funds to actually step into a 7-11 and buy something, maybe a bottle of water and a club sandwich. I'm gonna bring a stick of gum anyway in case things don't work out financially.
2. Get a new job
Well, that's actually also in the works. As I understand it, I've already been promised a job offer in another company. When that offer will actually come, that is the current question. Will the offer be acceptable to myself? I've no idea until I actually see it. But, well, you get the idea.
3. 30 pounds
Of what? Of myself. That's how much I need to lose to be able to wear that darn t-shirt I bought myself while in China. Ambitious, ain't it? I figure that itself should keep me busy for the next 6 months or so. But what if I fail? Does a perfectly functional t-shirt go to waste? Of course not. I've gotten the number of a great tailor who could make the appropriate alterations to the shirt so I can fit myself into it. I'll let you know how it goes in 6 months.
4. Kill off all the cockroaches in my house
Now this is probably the toughest one yet. Killing off a species that has outlived almost everyone else on the planet in a year's time. Of course, an alternative statement would be "Keep the cockroaches out of the house", obviously more realistic. The plan involves a heck of a lot of plaster and tape, and finding out where the heck these darn insects are coming from. Then I'm gonna get me a hamster and train it to hunt down the ones that make it past the first line of defense.
If all else fails, I'm gonna just move the heck out of the house and into a nice little condo high up in the stratosphere. I figure anything above the 20th floor should be safe enough. If any cockroach can flap his little wings that high up, they should be too tired to pose any serious threat to Mooky the cockroach eating hamster.
5. Kill something for food
Now this may seem a bit morbid, but don't worry, I'm planning to start slow. I've been thinking of planting tomatoes at home, and maybe carrots. After I've been able to successfully "hunt" and "slaughter" these down, then I can move on to larger prey, such as watermelons or a bitter gourd. I might need to enlist Mooky's help with these, so I guess I'd have to share some with him. But eventually, I should be able to move up the food chain until I reach the point when I'm "stalking" a chicken.
You know what, I just realized that these 5 should be enough for a year. Yeah, any more and I doubt I'd find the time to sit around and watch television all day. Anyway, wish me luck!
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