Death to the Bundy
By MARLA CABANBAN
DISCUSSED: Happiness and Satisfaction in Non-Demanding Jobs, Making that Leap into the Life of a Freelancer
Begin
I gave up a decent, steady stream of income derived from working at a desk job. If my computations served me right, the job that mostly left me sitting on my butt, staring at my computer, and leaving whenever I wanted to, paid the most out of all the occupations I filled in. It was exactly what I asked for in item number 3 when I drafted my 2010 birthday wish list: “3. Find a racket that’s really easy and brainless to do and would pay big bucks.”
One of my cocky ruminations brought me to the conclusion that I would find happiness and satisfaction in a job that didn’t demand much out of me and would pay me well. I felt like I had enough of being at the mercy of Bundy clocks and if I was going to be confined in an office, I might as well do something that will pass the time painlessly.
"I am not going to sit on my ass as the events that affect me unfold to determine the course of my life. I'm going to take a stand. I'm going to defend it. Right or wrong, I'm going to defend it." - Ferris Bueller
It was this sort of confident pronouncement that became one of the cornerstones of my early 20’s. I placed so much weight into my experiences and began holding them up as gospel truths. With whatever discomfort and displeasure I found at the hand of my employers, I took note of it all, and soon after, I began scheming for my exit strategies into the next promised land. This idea of my promised land was always pictured to be a place where all my annoyances didn’t exist.
Look Boss, I Can’t Need More Money When I Don’t Want to be Rich
Finding Meaning in the Pursuit of Happiness
By MIKA SANTOS
DISCUSSED: Athletes Trading Stocks, Athletes Quitting
“You know why I like hiring athletes? Because THEY DON’T QUIT.” These were the words my first boss would repeatedly tell me when he first hired me. And there I was, at my first week of work, flashing a semi-genuine smile, all the while thinking, “OH CRAP.”
Now, if you were some billionaire corporate tycoon, would you hire someone like me and teach me the ropes of making it big in your business just as you did? Apparently, because I was such a hardworking achiever of an athlete, that’s all I needed. The CEO of one of the country’s leading commodity trading firms chose me. Of the 2,000-something able Ateneo graduates, he had to choose me. Out of the entire market of unemployed graduates beginning their crawl up the proverbial ladder, I was chosen because of my capacity to work hard and sprint up that ladder. Like an athlete.
And of course all I could do was say yes.
The Early Stages of Late Puberty
By REDRUM
DISCUSSED: puberty part 2, that thing called a “career,” learning by doing, periods
Whenever I look at myself in the mirror before I head off to work, I see a young woman with a promising future ahead –carefully combed hair, crisp blouse, ironed-out slacks, hardly-used leather bag, pearl earrings, optimism. Giving my full corporate battle regalia a last look before heading out, I take a deep breath and tell myself,
“What the fuck.”
It’s almost like an inside joke that never gets old, only I’m doing both the joking and the laughing. About two dozen job interviews and four half-assed jobs later — all within 2 years upon graduating — I still feel like an alien in my own best-foot-forward skin. I always told myself never to settle for less or take on a job that required slacks or a too-sanitized environment of politeness. But here I am, secretly snacking on humble pie while I work an honest 8 to 5 marketing/copywriting job in an industry I know absolutely nothing about. I have nothing against jobs like these, but always felt like jobs like these had something against me, and that the corporate world would spit me out the moment I walk into a job interview.
If career paths had life spans, I’ll probably be right at the onset of puberty, alternately basking in the chaotic glory of identity-searching and screaming “fuck you!” at things I’m supposed to understand at 23 but don’t quite get yet. Career-wise, however, my lack of extreme go-getterness can be owed to the fact that as a kid, I never aimed for anything more realistically ambitious than joining the Tibetan monastery.
When I grow up, all I want to be is…
Re: TOXIC Manong Guard @ Employee’s Entrance
By MARGUERITE ALCAZAREN DE LEON
DISCUSSED: Unnecessary Security Measures, Not-Actually-Very-Questionable Clothing Choices, Life Compromises
Sent: 7/20/2010 8:19 AM
To: ALL
Re: TOXIC Manong Guard @ Employee’s Entrance
___________________________________________________________________________
Dear All –
Today marks the 365th day since I began employment as copywriter for this institution’s Corporate Communications Department. I confess that this is quite a feat for me, as this is the longest I have ever gone without seeing my job go down in flames, since graduating in 2007.
My default response to unpleasant occupations is to run away. The fact that I have not yet bolted means that my current job is actually quite tolerable. And this is in spite of the fact that my previous stints have been freelance, whereas this one is a stuffy, big-time business-type thing. Yes, it has been a considerable challenge adapting to corporate culture—the daily commute, the required “classes” for new hires (such as “Cultural Sensitivity Training”), the co-workers who listen to Taylor Swift without irony—but I have managed to do so, and I have more or less gotten the hang of it. I really have.
What Do You Do With “What Do You Do?”?
By MELANIE LEE
DISCUSSED: The Existential Angst that Comes About From Trying To Tell People What You Do
I wonder what these gals would say about their jobs.
The worst party I’ve ever been to happened just after I graduated from university. I found myself sitting in a circle of mostly strangers and we had to go round introducing ourselves and talking about “what we did”. How such an inane activity resulted is anybody’s guess, but there probably wasn’t enough booze to make me forget how a certain Bob happened to mention that he was “studying numbers and reports all day, but it’s a MNC so it’s a GREAT stepping stone [insert dazzling smile]”.
The sad thing is that ever since then meeting new people followed a dynamic similar to this lame party game (except, thankfully, never again with such a large group). And while I’ve always stored a set of impressive-sounding answers at the back of my head to give of the impression of being remotely capable, the cat somehow gets out of the bag.
Awkward Only Looks Good On Paulie Bleeker
By CARINA SANTOS
DISCUSSED: A life dictated by too many John Cusack movies and my suckage at intimacy, among other things.
I am a horrible flirt.
I cannot act coy, or bat my eyelashes, or bite my lip, or sustain eye contact with (marginally, and sometimes not even) attractive people. It makes me uneasy and anxious and, sometimes, it triggers some obscure gag reflex, although I couldn’t really explain to you how and/or why. It also makes me feel slightly stupid, when I am in the middle of doing any of the above, and I end up kind of inwardly laughing at myself and ruining whatever moment it was that had consequently failed to materialize. I suppose I’m just not good at it, like how some people are just not good at reading, or at casting spells, or at dying.
Most intimate encounters where it seems like I am beginning to share a special part of myself with someone I consider to be Pretty Special just end up being big awkward-fests, where I somehow steer the conversation into a minefield of jokes, most of which are delivered by me. Most of which are also, assuredly, not very funny. My tactic is and always has been to break every sort of tension with comedy, even though I’m not particularly good at it. I am, at least, better at making lame jokes than opening up about myself and, also, feelings.
About opening up: I’ve actually been keeping a blog since June 2002, a, thus far, eight-year stint that has made me some sort of expert at oversharing, constantly blasting my readers into The Wonderful World of TMI. And yet.
The Adventures of a Disappearing Girl
By FRANCESCA AYALA
There’s a place I’d like to go somewhere out west,
It’s not specific and the pictures show it best.
I know there’s trees, I know there’s sand, I know there’s grass,
I know it’s somewhere in the past.
It’s been months since you pulled off what was possibly the world’s greatest disappearing act.
You immediately heralded your acceptance into grad school by purchasing, with the very last of your resources, the first plane ticket out of town. You briefed your friends and family about your decision to take off early and spent each of those last days in Manila with a smile on your face. Every day you woke up with a different way to say goodbye to what, at face value, seemed to be a fabulous life—long boarding with buddies down the hills and over the humps of Makati’s posh subdivisions, teaching your younger siblings how to paint so they could learn more productive ways to pass time than playing with a Wii, singing your heart out of tune while backed by a live band in front of strangers that were starting to feel like friends, nighttiming with your Thursday family of fellow dance fiends who have no problems dancing the Techtonik with you to Dramarama and M.I.A., frequenting the occasional runway show with fellow fashion renegades to feed your addictions to local couture—it was by no means an exemplary existence but certainly one you were comfortable calling your own.
Nonetheless, you air-kissed your adieu to that life with a cool, detached composure one would use to tell a lover they never want to see again that they would call tomorrow. You packed your bags the way you opened presents on Christmas morning as a child and waved goodbye to it all as if in the opening scene to an Audrey Hepburn movie. You didn’t miss a beat. The only time you came close is when you embraced your mother goodbye. She cried so hard she didn’t notice your own tears muddle with hers as you pressed your face against her cheek.
Theater of Cruelty
By P. RAFAEL MERCADO
Partition the First
In which I audition for a Play for which I should not have auditioned and fall in love with one for whom I should not have fallen
1.
Aristotle sez: “The young have exalted notions, because they have not been humbled by life or learned its necessary limitations; moreover, their hopeful disposition makes them think themselves equal to great things—and that means having exalted notions. They would always rather do noble deeds than useful ones: Their lives are regulated more by moral feeling than by reasoning…. All their mistakes are in the direction of doing things excessively and vehemently. They overdo everything; they love too much, hate too much, and the same with everything else.”
2.
3.
When I was in my third high school year, I decided to audition for the batch play. I did not know why I decided to do this when I thought I was, rather erroneously, more of an intelligent but silent sort.
Later in my life I would realize I was never really that intelligent to begin with, nor entirely silent. But I was pretty delusional, and perhaps it was this delusion that brought my feet and my constitution to walk up to the second floor of our building and, along with the honor students, audition for the role of Don Pedro. The other kids, most of whom were not my friends (and those who were, I no longer spoke to) gave me this look when my name was called to the other room. They knew me—the same way everyone knows everyone in high school—but they had no idea why I was there, and seemed to entertain the thought that perhaps I had the wrong room. In a brief but sharp moment of realization, I began to entertain the same thought.
Here It Goes
(or, you buttsexed my heart)
By LIZ LONGBOURN
DISCUSSED: Dressing up, Dressing down, Breaking up
Alice Sarmiento ACCEPTING CONTRIBUTIONS FOR “Now that we are Alone…: The Intimacy Issue” Mixtapes, Breakup stories, Show and Tell, Interviews, send them to because@new-slang.com
So I see that on my Facebook feed, and I think, why not? Writing about it is supposed to be cathartic. Arguably, it may be too early in the day for this because the sun still looks inappropriately cheery, but here it goes.
First (and only) boyfriend. Seven years, ish. I am now 22, which makes for 31.82% of my life spent with, well, let’s call him B. I met him when I was 14, we decided we were in love about a year or so later, and (you know how it is) we were “official” another year after that.
I guess right now I’m thinking, WHY THE F*CK DID IT TAKE ME SO LONG TO GET OUT OF THAT RELATIONSHIP? But I guess that’s because it’s still a little raw.
"In a Milan Kundera sort of way..."
Who wants uncomplicated love? B texted me some time ago. He told me we had something awesome and painful and gritty and interesting and epic, in a Milan Kundera sort of way. I’m not kidding, he really did say “in a Milan Kundera sort of way”.
Heck of a way to try getting someone back.
The first time B broke up with me was over a skirt. He thought my skirt was too short, and he asked me to change out of it. I was in my own house, and it was my mom’s birthday, and I was surrounded by aunts and uncles. And even if I wasn’t, and even if my skirt was too short (though I maintain to this day that it was not), what gave him the right to tell me to change? Things escalated, as things do with teenagers (or between any two people when someone is being a total asshole who just won’t quit) and he threatened to leave. I told him if he walked out that door, he better not think about coming back. So he left. I was seventeen.
It would be great if this ended here. Really.
At War With the Friend Zone
By YAGI OLAGUERA
DISCUSSED: Dating, The Truth About Quicksand, Ryan Reynolds
I can be a total idiot when it comes to dating. I’ve proven this time and time again in the almost two decades that I’ve attempted to chase after members of the fairer sex. Though I have had my share of success in that department, it still doesn’t change the fact that my facepalm-worthy moments always stick out more than my victories.
Actual picture of me after a date
As of late, my recent failures in the romance department have fallen in a single category. I seem to have been making the same mistake for more than half of the decade and I’ve been convinced that I’m cursed. It seems to me that I’ve fallen into the friend zone more times than I care to admit and I can never really figure out how to get out of it.
The thing is, I actually believe that this whole friend zone thing is a relatively new cultural phenomenon. It definitely was not around during the late 90’s when my admittedly flawed views on dating were first formed. During those days, being friends seemed like the only way you were going to get the girl. Both of the relationships I’ve been in, as well as the relationships of many of the people around me, seemed to support this view. Those experiences however would leave me unprepared for my first brush with what I would later know as “the friend zone”.
