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?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
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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