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.

In a highway restaurant called Isdaan somewhere in Tarlac, there’s an attraction called Tacsiyapo! A niche is stationed right before the restaurant and within it is a knee-high pile of shattered plates and other crockery.  Behind the heap of broken shards is a wall painted with words like “Mother-in-law!” and “Ex-boyfriend!” in superhero graphics. The minds that brought you that famous Singing Cooks and Waiters allowed you to hurl plates, cups, and even a TV if you could carry it, at this wall for a minimal fee. For a few pesos, you can vent your rage and aggression and shot put it all at this wall while you scream the local expletive “Tacsiyapo!”

After two jobs, one of the many forms my promised land assumed was my own version of Tacsiyapo. Instead of broken plates, my wall would be littered with the corpses of Bundy clocks. If there would be an accompanying AV presentation for my Tacsiyapo, it would show scenes of me typing out my resignation letters, sneakily placing them in my boss’ front desks, and pumping my fist in the air while doing butt shimmies. The soundtrack would be a mash-up of the 1984 Olympics theme song and Kid Cudi’s Pursuit of Happiness.

Trivia: John Williams composed this.



I’m not really big on Kid Cudi. I prefer this cover by Lissie — plus she takes a shot of Tequila before she sings it.

I decided that the Bundy clock was my enemy. I refused to have a clock crucify me for every minute I was late and had the corresponding minutes deducted from my already meager paycheck. I refused to buckle down to a system that insisted on me staying in one place for 8 hours, when I could easily generate the output needed in 3 hours if I was left to my own devices. But because I had to play by the rules, the three hours that I normally use gets stretched throughout those 8 hours and I spend the time in between pretending not to check Facebook and playing Spider Solitaire. Even with the case of liking, even loving what I did for a living, given those conditions, love quickly turned into hate. Little by little, it also started dawning upon me that I was getting paid far less than I knew I was worth.

Of course, I started thinking of how the older generations lament how spoiled and self-indulgent my generation has gotten. Older figures have observed that people my age have lost the discipline to hold down commitments because there are just so many options out there, and as a result, sometimes we allow these options to trap us, leaving us to never making any choices at all.

So I held on, believing that I had to prove to the world and to myself that I can endure and stay put. I had to prove that I was someone worth keeping around and needless to say, tenure just happened to be the quickest way to spot good work ethic. More than anything, I had to know that I had work ethic, that I had integrity, and that people can rely on me to get things done.

What my hubris looks like

Middle

I didn’t know everything. Each time I acted like I did, it was a defense mechanism aimed to cover up that fact that I knew nothing. Each year, I found myself getting so much better at giving excuses. My having to act like I did have a clue was another one, an excuse for lingering around in the office longer than I wanted to.

So I quit the last quasi job I had. I left the cushy seat, the fancy computer, and the security of an office. I quit because there was no happiness to be found with something you had zero interest in doing, no matter how menial the task. I died a slow death because even if the money came easy, my soul was being chipped away in little increments, upset at the fact that I chose to abandon it for the sake of immediate monetary comfort and relief.

I quit with no prospects looming ahead. There was no Promised Land this time, unlike the last sign off where I already had a job lined up. I quit because I had to snap out of the work cycle and figure out once and for all what it was that I was going to do with my life. In order to do that, I needed time and I needed a damn break from the straight, two-year work grind I chucked myself into.

All the dreams that I put on hold slowly began to come out of hiding and splayed themselves out for me to examine.

And I reaped the diamonds soon enough. The first week of unemployment was glorious. I was deathly afraid of using up my last paycheck, but I was happy because I no longer had to chase clocks and plead with them. I slept in, caught up with TV, and saw people during the daytime again. I was releasing doves and throwing petals.

But as the last imaginary petal fell on the floor, I went back to the awareness that the break was a quick respite–as I knew I didn’t have much time until the last paycheck ran out. “So what the fuck do you want to do, Marla?”

I got right back to work. If there was something the last two years taught me, it was that throwing yourself into something, anything will distract your mind from your anxieties and eventually reveal all the answers to you. This time I was doing work for me, and not for any entity that wanted me to be part of its machine. It was time to put together all the work I did after college. I never had the time to do so, and now I finally did. I spent two whole days in my pajamas exporting .jpeg’s from .ai files and splicing them all together. I’d sit with my legs up on my computer chair with a glass of water by my side and worked my butt off while praying for my 2003-era PC not to die on me.

I finished my portfolio and I updated my resume. I spent another couple of days looking for companies and referrals. I sent everything in, crossed my fingers, and told myself it was just a matter of time until someone took the bait.

I look back at that time where I hardly had any money as one of the best weeks of my working life. I gained back my bearings and decided that I was through with experimenting with my theories on the workforce and listening to societal convention. “What the fuck do you want to do, Marla?”

“I’m going to be a designer! This is what I love to do and this is who I am. I lost my way a bit, but now I’m back.”

And I was ready to throw myself back out there.

There was one huge problem though: no one was calling me back.

Here we go

End

With the last of my money running out, I turned pale and finally felt the fear.

“Tell me what you know about dreamin’ dreamin’
you don’t really know about nothin’ nothin’
tell me what you know about them night terrors every night”

“Now what?” I asked myself. I guess when I went back to the dreams I had splayed out in front of me, it was all in pursuit of something: happiness was the easiest way to call it. I was fixing the creases of the mindset that “I will generate work that I can be proud of” and I carefully laid out “I’m going to start saving money for the future already.”

Somewhere in the middle of that mental exercise, the word “pursuit” began haunting me. Often, the excessive use of a word aids in diminishing its meaning. To me, “The Pursuit of Happiness” was synonymous to “The Big Goal” or “Life’s Worthwhile Attainment,” a series of words that fumbled at encapsulating a state of being.

“Pursuit” was all about a chase. It was all about running to ensnare something. And I had to keep moving.

A few days later, I started getting the calls – calls from my boyfriend’s dad and calls from my old boss. They had work for me.

It wasn’t the sort of employment I was expecting; I was already humbling myself down to accept another 9-5… and yet all my effort yielded something that I never even entertained at this point in my life. It was a profession that allowed me to work in my underwear anywhere and anytime. It allowed for me to call the shots and the hours I placed into a project. It paid good money, good money that corresponded to the physical and mental energy I dispersed into it. It was a profession that held out for me all I ever wanted – control over my time.

It was world that had no use for that damned Bundy clock. It was the start of my first freelancing stint.

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.

Blame it on parental pressure, restlessness after 2 months of bumming, my try-everything-once attitude, and my obsession with not wasting opportunities.  And so I entered the world of commodities trading… Sugar trading to be exact.  Just like stocks, it was all about making the right buying and selling decisions amidst the ever-fluctuating market prices.  It was about business relationships… with men who all knew my late grandfather (not just because he was a big name in the sugar industry, but because most of them were that old.) You could make two million pesos or way more in a single deal if you could play your cards right… And I was being paid rather well just to learn all of this.

Blame it on life, which was never fair to begin with.

I gave it my best and lasted for 6 months—coming to work in clothes that were too tight, looking and feeling like a complete idiot during lunch meetings, trying to understand an industry I had no interest in prior to the job, and being just another face in the raging sea of the mechanical workforce that walks Ayala’s elevated walkways every rush hour.

I was doing fine, really.  I had free coffee, the office was nice, and the bathrooms were very suitable for ANY call of nature.  I had Multiply.com to reach the outside world, my blog to express myself, and when internet was down, there was always my all-time-favourite Windows game, Minesweeper (5 second record on beginner mode baby!).  Everything was going great, until I found out about an opening in one of the “coolest” companies I could dream of working for.  It was the equivalent of an athlete being asked to work for Nike or Adidas.  This cool company needed a brand manager, which to me meant discounts, events, surf trips, and the best part of all, I could wear slippers to work!  I gave my resume, attended the interview, and thankfully got the offer.  The pay was way less than my current job, but I didn’t care.  It was a “cool” job.  My only problem then was how to tell my boss… and this is the reason I wanted to tell this story in the first place.

There I was about to give up a job that was sure to make me rich and “successful” if I really stuck to it.  I knew it was a wasted opportunity, money-wise, and that there are thousands out there who would do anything to take my spot.  But I felt had to do it.  In our relentless pursuit for happiness, I was just thrilled at the idea that the cool job allowed me to wear friggin’ slippers to work.

And so, I broke the news during a meeting with the entire trading team.  However, just when I thought I slipped out of my job safely, my big boss called me into his office.  Pacing back and forth across his room like an impatient cop trying to put 2 and 2 together, he poured out his real sentiments.  A few highlights:

“ I just can’t begin to reconcile.. selling shirts vs Trading?”

“With trading you can make 20 million pesos in a week by a mere market fluctuation.. How long or how many shirts will you have to sell to be able to send your kids to school?”

“ I’d understand if you’d want your kids to wait 2 hours to ride the MRT…Perhaps it will build their character…But if you don’t have to, then why?!”

“ I feel I failed to show you how trading can open so many doors to you.. it can earn you money, which will buy you the freedom to do whatever you want.”

“ Of course I’ve already accepted your resignation. I’m just sad and disappointed. Well at least my sons who are now in the states are already beginning to appreciate how exciting trading can get.”

And finally,

“But in the end, whatever makes you happy makes ME happy. If you decide to come back, you are still welcome.”

And what went on in my head, as I silently sat on my chair?

Dear Mr. CEO,

Thank you for graciously accepting my resignation, and I really am sorry to disappoint you.  I was actually anticipating everything you just said. I know you feel I am making a mistake, and you’re probably right.  But I feel it is a mistake I have to make.

Done.

That was 3 years ago. And I’ve already left the cool job to move on to another.  Why?  Another long story, but to cut it short, just as predicted, I was underpaid and underworked.  And no, I didn’t go back to the sugar company, although I knew they’d welcome me with open arms (I still don’t know why.)  From other people’s POVs, I really did throw away an opportunity.  Sure, now that it’s been 3 years into the independent life, I do wish I made more money now.  I don’t regret joining the sugar company, nor do I regret leaving it for the cool job that probably left me even less qualified than the first one.

If propriety and tact don’t exist, I would’ve added that I was only 22. At the time money was not my first priority.  I was fresh out of college with the high-minded ideal of helping the poor rather than making myself richer! I did not want to be rich and powerful and riding in my boss’s Lexus did not make me want one of my own. While I did enjoy the back massager, it was a luxury I could do very well without.

It was not about selling shirts.  It was a lifestyle choice that my boss would never understand.

All I know today is, I still just want to live comfortably, do something I love, and develop myself into someone who will help make the world a better place somehow.  And as I continue to naively dream of my ideal world where love and nature thrive, I’m glad to have the opportunity to be slapped in the face by reality, one decision after another, one day at a time.

Done.

The term petiks was derived from “pipitik-pitik”. Directly translated, this means to snap one’s fingers, but in the more familiar territory of slacking off, it can be better understood as the “thumb twiddle”, a.k.a. that thing you do when you sit back and wait for something to happen. Which is highly unlikely in the rank-and-file culture of the corporate world: that wonderful environment where you can actually convince yourself that the dude in the next cubicle is a likely bet–despite his being gayer than a handbag full of rainbows.

At an office, the art of thumb twiddling, or petiks has been raised to new heights with the advent of the information age. Petiks has found a friend in twitter, tumblr, friendster, and of course, facebook. This problem has been solved by your friendly neighborhood IT person, who has dutifully gone on to block all the addresses that have made petiks possible–except on their own networks which still give them free reign over their cabbage patches in Farmville.

My office had me confused about the difference between petiks and work. In my definition, work was anything I did sitting at my desk for 8 hours a day. Work didn’t have to be a pain in the ass; on average it took about an hour and a half to generate and sift through sales reports and merchandising calendars, which left me with copious amounts of time throughout the workweek to twiddle my thumbs. But really, where did all that time go?

1. EXCEL ART!

   Me, to my boss: How do you do that thing on excel where you select a whole area and then fill only certain cells with color?
   My boss: (blablabla some gibberish I can no longer recall)

   45 minutes later, and TADA!

   

   How much color can I throw at my eyeballs? Let Excel count the ways.

   Excel is useful for organizing data and designing really garish Welcome mats, among other things.

2. Chat up Cleverbot

   What do you do with all the random word vomit that accumulates from staring at sales reports and listening to small talk? You go on twitter and vent. Unfortunately your IT guy knows you’ve been going on twitter and venting, and your IT guy doesn’t want word getting out about how inhuman your conditions are. (Just kidding, they are not inhuman. You get free water, climate control, and carpeting; and to call this inhuman would diminish things that actually are inhuman. Like apartheid.)
   So you go to Cleverbot. Here comes Cleverbot, with the answers to all your most important questions.
   

   You too can feel clever for having found loopholes in the firewalls to indulge your need for interweb detritus and ironically cryptic oversharing. How could the IT people never have heard of Cleverbot?

3. Send Motivational Posters to your Disgruntled Office Friends

   The most important issues I have to face at work (especially at my old office) involved who deserved what brand of motivation. Guy in cubicle 4, Employee # 08058935748h9*** was feeling down, so I emailed him this and wished him well.

   

4. Make Slideshows About Random Objects

   The beauty of powerpoint is that no matter what your slideshow’s about, you look like you’re doing legitimate work. I mean, if it’s worth presenting it has to be IMPORTANT, right?
   And people assume you have a rilly rilly urgent presentation coming up, one that involves shareholders and big words to throw at your boss’s face, so no one bothers you.

   Even if what you’re working on is this.

   

Not that you’d want to make a powerpoint about folders, but as an example this DOES make a good point about this exercise in creatively wasting your time…and charging it to the company.) I made a Powerpoint about myself on my last day at my last office and sent it to my whole team. That was an awesome way to bid them farewell.

5. Make Playlists Based on Random Themes

   You may not have access to sites like youtube and vimeo; but most firewalls wouldn’t block yousendit and mediafire because there are times when you need those things, as a professional and productive member of the workforce.
   So make a mixtape. I made one that’s all waltzes, because waltzing the away makes the day go by faster. You can download that HERE.

   1. The Avalanches – “Two Hearts in 3/4 Time”
   2. Avi Buffalo – “Coaxed”
   3. The Magnetic Fields – “With Whom to Dance”
   4. Au Revoir Simone – “Don’t See the Sorrow”
   5. Laura Marling – “My Manic and I”
   6. Blue Roses – “Doubtful Comforts”
   7. Seabear – “Owl Waltz”
   8. Beach House – “All the Years”
   9. Andrew Bird – “Sovay”
   10. Explosions in the Sky – “Your Hand in Mine”

   Download “Waltzing Away”

Note that New Slang does not condone this kind of work ethic. We can’t blame you if you hate your job. A lot of us go through jobs we need at the expense of what’s really in our hearts. Just because you don’t like what you’re paid to do doesn’t mean you should be an asshole about it. There are however ways to be creative with your assholery so that it all somehow cancels out, just ask Tyler Durden.

Tyler Durden does not fuck around, and neither should you.

Unfortunately, she no longer has time for making petiks, as most of her waking hours are devoted to planning lessons, editing this website, and trying not to pull her hair out. This article is a perfect example of an ironically productive time wastage.

Faulty title, minutes do not measure distance. But we get what I mean: How far is the airport from your house? One hour. How far is Cebu from Manila? One hour. Distance is only as relevant as the time it takes to get us there. I hope that appeases our intellectual snobs.

With that out of the way…

There’s this phrase that some people live by. And by some people, I mean the lazy half-wits from the northern side of Manila who I call male friends. It goes, “sexy, pretty, Quezon City.” It describes their ideal girl, to state the obvious.

It is my destined task to disagree with the first two, but I fully subscribe to the third, seeing as it makes for a lot of why I love my work. Not everyone will agree with lawyering for the poor as a sound career decision (it is, Mother), but nobody can argue with Quezon City.

The much overlooked economic viability of working for my QC-based NGO is explained below:

PM snack, P15

The items are self-explanatory, except perhaps for lunch and attire. Yes, P 35 for lunch, and that includes a meat dish and a vegetable dish (half-order). We have a lunch supplier making the rounds every morning, and unless you’re vegetarian or playing your ipod at full blast, you will have your balanced meal as soon as Ate Gina shouts, “PAGKAEEEEN!” On attire, there is no written or unwritten dress code in our office. And neither is there one in most parts of QC, the NGO capital of the world.

Imagine the happiness that P15,300 can buy. Every month.

Plus I get to sleep more and eat breakfast with my mother, which over-all make me a better person, and which pretty much sums up the psychosocial part.

Whether you have doubts about sexy and pretty, or are unsure if you’re in the right job, trust the Quezon City factor to show you the way. Find work that hits close to home in every imaginable way.

I write this from my room in Sydney, where I’m taking my Masters in Human Rights and Democratisation on scholarship, thanks mainly to my NGO work. I think of tomorrow’s walk to class in the nice Australian winter (also seven minutes), and am astonished by the genuine possibility that, except for finishing the song “Hey Jude” on my routine morning walk, I can have it all.

Sexy, pretty, Quezon City.




__________________________________________________________________________

Bobbie works for an NGO called Sentro ng Alternatibong Lingap Panligal (SALIGAN) and wishes people would stop thinking of her work as a hobby. She tumbls here.

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…

“A nun.”

I’ve never had a clearer, simpler picture of what I wanted to grow up to be than when I was five and I declared to the whole household that I wanted to become a nun. “Why?” my mom would ask, half-amused and half-terrified. Without hesitating, I answered, “Because nuns don’t get periods.”

This is my earliest memory of ambition.

I was five, and I hadn’t gotten around to knowing much about periods yet, except that they were bloody and gross. The premature knowledge that I had about nuns, particularly the ones running my school (i.e., that they’re different from you and me, that they ALWAYS wear veils, that they don’t look like they have a lot of fun, etc.), was enough for me to believe my sister’s story (story instead of myth, because at that time she didn’t know it was a myth, tama?) about nuns not getting periods because they were holy and special and that was that. Amen.

From a five-year-old’s standpoint, that was all I wanted to be when I grew up… holy, special and menstruation-free.

Realizing that my first inkling of a career path was built on a sham, I moved on to other dream titles such as “Archaeologist” (thanks to Discovery Channel), which was soon replaced by “Veterinarian”(no thanks to unprecedented pet deaths). I was a stark contrast to my sister who always answered “Doctor” whenever she was asked about her dream job, and she did become one.

The last thing I crossed off my list was “Tibetan Monk,” and I had nothing to replace it with, even as I started filling out college application forms.




Writer’s Bollocks

I fumbled my way through college, having eenie-meenie-minie-moed my way through the least math-related courses and graduated with a degree on indecisiveness, majoring in directionless. I just crossed my fingers during job interviews, hoping that my diploma was as convincing as people said it would be. It worked at first, until my charm ran out and my lack of any particular technical skill surfaced. I felt like half-baked beans left to rot with nothing, but my love for sarcasm and word-spewing.

So here I am, word-spewing for a living, but trading in sarcasm for improved grammar and marketing jargon. I knew I could write, but never really considered it as a valid career path. It just seemed like a necessary skill that everyone had, not in the same levels of proficiency but it wasn’t as clear-cut a career path as I would have liked it to be. So I plunged headfirst into the rat race, armed with nothing but a minor case of grammar obsessive-compulsiveness, a wide range of hallucinatory ideas and the willingness to get over the term “selling out” and chew on the idea of “compromise” instead.

By “compromise,” it meant having to tidy up my foul language and run-ons. Reading business journals and attending marketing webinars. Spit shining my vocabulary. Creating inventive titles out of the driest corporate jargon. It went against everything that I liked about writing — the liberating feeling of playing with language, the surge of adrenaline you get from creatively penning wonderful and disastrous things (that you’re probably never going to do), and so on. It took a lot more energy than I was prepared to shell out, and my fears of turning into the very things used to laugh at and detest came back to haunt me.





Puberty peaks: Resistance is fertile

While some people adapt and flow into the natural course of adulthood upon getting their first stable job or relationship, I sank into the undertow. With a huge grin on my face. Getting a regular job where I thought I had to compromise my principles and ideals was probably the best thing that happened to my occasional search for self-realization. And it’s not because I’ve grown to be synonymous to my job title, my salary range or my work; in fact, it’s quite the opposite. Resistance grew fertile where I dreaded I would lose myself in the rat race – fatigue, waking up and sleeping early, working too hard, partying less. I can’t say there weren’t times when I wasn’t immune to these, but I resisted settling just for whatever was thrown my way. When the new burdens that come with age beckon and life throws me lemons, I manically go up front and center and yell “MORE! MORE! MORE!” like a crazed fangirl in a Justin Bieber concert. My monotonous routine and growing pile of menial tasks continue to manifest signs of adverse reaction, such as extreme bouts of energy and excitement about life, with no particular preference for all-good, peachy keen experiences. Like a tween at the onset of puberty, I’m filled with fickle hormones that could go from euphoric to destructive at the flick of an invisible switch. I still laugh at the sight of myself in proper work clothes, but recently took a liking to cosmetics counters, bank savings account options, furniture… and how all of these are part of my integral plans for social deconstruction and the return to the comforts of my childhood.

I’m not a big proponent of the quarter-life-crisis phenomenon, but if it does exist, I don’t think I’m going through it. There is no crisis, no self-righteous conclusions about life, no smart-ass tips on how to succeed in your first job, first relationship, first job interview and other messy, frightening firsts. I’m too busy trying to get a grasp of everything, learning how to act acceptably in public, putting on the right kind of makeup for formal occasions, bashfully rekindling friendships with ex-friends and ex-lovers, exploring higher states of consciousness, being socially responsible, reading books about extraterrestrials and finding new places and states of mind that would make good playgrounds.

Initially, I searched for a job to make ends meet and to steer my life somewhere –ANYWHERE. While I do take pride in the fact that I’m now responsible for all my necessary and unnecessary expenses, I refuse to believe that all these responsibilities mark my leap into adulthood. I think I made a bigger leap of faith into the unknown, occasionally getting scratches and bruises from bigger, unidentifiable objects floating alongside. There’s no resolve, no sense of finality – only the thrill that I have no concrete idea of everything that’s going on, yet that I’m completely enamored by all of it.




___________________________________
Redrum is a full-time marketing copywriter and a freelance features writer who has yet to overcome the fear of attaching her real name to her non-work-related essays. She enjoys long trips out of town and longer trips inside her head.

To Whom It May Concern (you know who you are, you soulless bastard):

Please, please, please accept this letter as resignation of my position as fashion assistant, effective as soon as motherfucking possible.  I am offering you two weeks’ notice that will hopefully, by some way of miracle, be enough time for you to find the next masochistic, idiot to take my place. Good luck finding one who’ll put up with your stupid motivational posters (WORTH: Just because you’re necessary, doesn’t make you important) and ridiculous requests (No, you can’t call me Yaya in photo shoots. And no, I won’t go an ice cream diet just so you can look thinner next to me).

Download: Here’s Your Coffee Motherfucker

My decision to resign was finalized after wasting two years of my life, listening to you go on and on about how I’m responsible for your fuck-ups. It’s not my fault you ended up going on the ice cream diet, and that you gained 20 pounds thereby crushing your dreams of becoming the NEXT! BIG! THING! in ice skating. Just so you know no amount of latex or glitter can make you as cool as that other gay Creative Director (Snap!).

I regret having to leave friends, who no doubt will suffer through your insufferable mood swings once I’m gone because no one will be there to get you your coffee (Grande, but placed in a Vendi cup with a dash of 2% milk, no foam and two sachets of Equal) or count your calories (one boiled egg: 80 cal, a pack of peanuts: 45 cal, Skyflakes:120cal) or tell you that you’re not fat (Skinny jeans? Of course you have the legs for them! Ah Yes. Unlike me).

I apologize if I declined your offer for a promotion. I believe you misread my reaction when you told me I was beginning to become just like you. That was not the face of happiness. It was the face of abject horror on the brink of a total meltdown (See: The Shining)

Next to breaking up with my ex, this decision has been the best one I’ve made in a long, long time. I sincerely believe that this will be beneficial to my long-term goals, which includes dying with my dignity intact.

Again, it was a horrendous learning experience working for you and I wish you nothing but endless sorrow and an eternity’s worth of blue balls for the rest of your pathetic years.

Sincerely,

Sophia Fish

Sophie Fish loves discounted books and the smell of shoe polish. She one day hopes to write a book about her family but is currently very  happy in the arms of a very dorky but very loving man.

In case True Blood has not reached where you live (under a rock), teacup human means small human or child. In season one, it was said that children’s blood tastes best, followed by virgins’. I doubt that. If children’s blood had a taste, it would be like sparkling water to the fizz intolerant – deceptively sweet, but biting to the throat.

A vampire sheriff bidding two teacup humans farewell

This is why, if you simply want to try it out, I do not recommend teaching.

Teaching the lower grades requires a lot more than the desire to try new things. Do not be glamoured by the short working hours, or the days off when classes are suspended. You will soon find out that while you are a teacher virtually at all times, executives are executives only five days a week (okay, six on particularly busy weeks).

Apart from the task of teaching, there is the lesson plan that has to be written with painstaking detail, and submitted to the subject coordinator who is unhappilyunmarried (and thinks this is your fault), for approval. On your days off you will find yourself at home revising lesson plans that have more red marks than black.

That is, if you’re not checking papers.

I was 22 when I taught at a private elementary school. My students were tweens while my co-teachers were old enough to be my parents. Could I be blamed for spending more time in my parked car than anywhere else in the school? No. Not really.

For propriety’s sake, I held back whenever students showed signs of wanting to hang out. Although I cannot recall a single class wherein I did not have to raise my voice, I had a few students who were genuinely likable. Lovable, even. I would sometimes catch myself in the company of these kids, talking like we were all classmates, except I was in a different uniform.

A handful of kids will make your days walk, if not fly.

I especially enjoyed talking with Diego. Diego fits the bill of a weirdo quite perfectly. He talked about crazy things like fishing in the creek, with flour baits he cooked himself, or building a lie detector with his secret configuration of transistors. He was the smartest kid I knew.

He was also the most artistic. I have his ink blots on crumpled paper hanging on my wall.

With the other, less peculiar kids, sharing often meant revealing who your crush is, even if they don’t know him. Or who their crushes are, even if you’ve known from the start. Your place by the blackboard helps you figure these things out.

Or helluva funny videos that show up in your news feed.

If that didn’t reek of raging hormones, I don’t know what will.

Maybe this.

The boys had one kick too many out of this botched up paint job.

At other times, when I remembered to be proper with the kids, I took to my car. I did not feel the need to form relationships with my colleagues, thus my inability to supply two cents on where the best place for sex is in the office. There wasn’t even a place for smoking.

Soon enough, you will take it upon yourself to quit smoking. If your students, or worse, their parents, see you with a lit stick between your lips, shame on you.

I also remember having to wear long pants to the mall because “shorts are indecent.”I wasn’t kidding about being a teacher everyday of the week.

The English Department met formally every week or so, to discuss official matters when grievances weren’t in the way. But they often were. During these dreaded meetings I bit my tongue for an hour, or how ever long it took for the coordinator to burst into tears. Yes, teachers could be bullies, too.

The scenario in the faculty pantry was much more civilized. Maybe we were just hungry at departmental meetings. And it didn’t help that our coordinator looked like a fry.

Over hurried lunch or some other too-quick break, I may have opened up a little to a couple of my colleagues. I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a bad bone in their bodies. They were fun and interesting – the makings of a pal, but I never felt like going beyond the acquaintance.

I could only imagine the things that were said about me; cold shoulders and rolling eyes spoke louder than words. Could they be blamed? No. Not really. I was a bit of a Diego, if you know what I mean.I ate in the car, wore strange looking shoes that were advertised as sandals, and sported a boy’s haircut.

I like to think that my students saw me differently. I know Tristan and Liam did. I remember parts of a conversation I had with these boys. I had just timed out at the nearest bundy clock to my parking while they idly waited for their bus several feet away. They caught up with me in the parking lot. I can’t be sure what Tristan said, probably something about the PETA stickers that protected my biometric card from scratches, or how my hair was getting shorter and shorter, and lighter and lighter. I do remember, though, that Liam asked me why their other teachers were not like me. I asked him what he meant by “like me,” and both of them answered, “Cool.” I can be sure I blushed.

During my last few weeks at work, my desk disappeared under letters and gifts. If I could only scan a few to attach to this essay, you would’ve seen how my kids knew the difference between its and it’s, and your and you’re. Well, at least most of them.

One section gave me their pet stuffed tiger as a souvenir. I was deeply touched, because I knew this tiger meant a lot to the kids. It was like their mascot: it represented them. This was also the section that ate me alive.

A few years later, I would still bump into my students at the mall, and even with the bad apples, only pleasant words were exchanged.

Sometimes they would come up to me and ask me for their names, like a pop quiz. I would fail, of course. It cannot be helped.

I may have forgotten their names, but I will keep the times they made my life easier, albeit outnumbered by the times they made it extra hard.

Written in my poor version of the school-prescribed Palmer script

_________________________________________________

Nice is a contributor to New Slang. When she’s not taking care of her Grac, she makes art and writes for various magazines. She was last seen here with the piece entitled, “For Anyone Who Thinks Having a Baby is the Best Thing Ever.” Her work can be found here.

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.

There is, however, one nit I would like to pick: the Toxic Manong Guard at the Employee’s Entrance.

The dick to whom I am referring to is the Manong Guard, the beefy one with the scowl, the one who checks our bags whenever we clock in. While all the other Manong Guards across the company complex are amiable, courteous Emilio Aguinaldo look-a-likes, this one is a surly pug of a man. The nice Manong Guards are stationed at areas with high visitor traffic, and while I do understand the need for decidedly attractive, friendly personnel to tend to the folks who supply this institution with money, do we, the employees, deserve a Manong Guard of a less evolved breed? Does the fact that the Employee’s Entrance is a dimly-lit shaft set in a humid, dilapidated portion of the hospital’s underground parking area warrant an equally disheartening gatekeeper? No.

It’s bad enough that he’s a grump. You trudge to work at 8 AM, fueled just barely by an Enervon and an 8 oz. coffee, and with the thought of the day’s assignments stretched far, far out before you , the first person you come across has to stare at you with unquestionable contempt, his heavy-lidded eyes saying, Hate your life as I hate mine, Random Employee.

What’s worse is that he’s a pro-active grump. A person’s toxicity, after all, is gauged by how he makes himself difficult to deal with, and Toxic Manong Guard is one difficult SOB. His signature move is to delay your entrance to the main building for whatever inane reason he sees fit for that day—having an ID slightly cracked by time, bringing in fast food take-out, listening to your iPod. He’d make a show of walkie-talkie-ing some other Manong Guard and informing him of your heinous crime, after which the other Manong Guard, annoyed that Toxic Manong Guard is walkie-talkie-ing him for no good reason, would just bark at Toxic Manong Guard to call the manager of your department and explain the situation, and after Toxic Manong Guard does so, glaring at you as if you had taken up his precious time and not the other way around, your manager would tell him Huh? So what? Just let her in.

Despite all his sighing and tsk-tsking, it is quite apparent that Toxic Manong Guard delights in his ability to suck out all the joy from your morning. A knack for the proverbial power trip, if you will.

Now, while it may seem that he chooses his victims at random, I’m afraid that this is not, or at least no longer, true. And this is why I have sent this memo to all of you today.

Considering that Toxic Manong Guard loves to home in on people who don’t fit his idea of the perfect employee (i.e. just another impeccably polished cog devoid of distinguishing features), the  fact that I am anti-uniform makes me his most prized target. At least once a week, we have a tiff over what I’m wearing. He has even mastered the look of judgment—head to toe then toe to head, his eyebrows raised in scorn.

Technically, I don’t wear the company uniform because Human Resources has yet to drag me to a fitting. That’s the standard, legit excuse I make. But once I do get my own set, I still wouldn’t wear that polyester crap with the fake cowl and the big ‘decorative’ buttons. And Toxic Manong Guard knows I wouldn’t, because my apprehension is already apparent in my loose interpretation of what non-uniform office wear is, so he aims to give me shit for it whenever possible, his thoughts likely along the lines of Boy, this bitch doesn’t get it. She went corporate! She deserves to be given a hard time if she doesn’t comply with protocol. Non-conformity is so 90’s.

But here’s my point: It is true that my outfits aren’t business attire in the strictest sense. I don’t like pinstripes, pencil skirts, pumps, or pearls. I don’t like flesh-toned stockings, ruffles, collars, tucked-in shirts, or thin leather watches. I hate make-up. That pulled-in, put-together, lady-like look makes me queasy. But I do not go out of my way to look like trash, either.

Instead, I have taken to wearing slacks, tanks, shirts or shirt-dresses, and cardigans. Since I like walking to work from the bus stop instead of taking the jeep, I wear flipflops, but I do change to the pair of flats stowed away in my office, if I have to interview someone or if I have to attend a meeting. Adequate and unremarkable, comfortable but not slutty—that’s the closest to ‘office’ I’m going to get, and I truly believe that it’s close enough. Also, considering that I like a hint of slut in my get-up most of the time, my sartorial choices for work are already a significant effort on my end to look unlike myself.

Thus, I really believe that Toxic Manong Guard has better things to do with his time than berate me week after week about the fact that I am not hot, itchy, and constricted. It’s not like I go to work in boxers and a hoodie. I look neat and presentable. Hindi ako mukhang dugyot. No higher ups have ever drawn me aside to tell me I should get my shit together clothes-wise. And besides, I am not an overtly visible minion of this institution; I spend most of my time holed up in our 18^th floor office, so much so that my boss has taken to addressing me in her emails as ‘Cave Girl.’ I’m a copywriter, demmet, not a flight attendant.

The reason why I have been able to avoid quitting this job for a year now, in fact, is because I have successfully assimilated myself into this institution without using self-torture. It is one thing to respect the rules, and another to be their bitch, after all. I’ve conformed just enough not to be seen as some angst-ridden anarch, and I’ve also breached protocol just enough not to feel like I’ve sliced n’ diced my soul. And not only does this strategy up my longevity, it also allows me to be good at my job. I can’t write when I’m not comfortable. I can’t come up with quality work when half of me is busy wondering why my life has gone to doody.

This memo, then, is a proposal of sorts. I move, dear cohorts, that Toxic Manong Guard be relocated to a station far more suited to the rod up his ass. Such as the loading dock, say. Or the basement 3 storage area. Or at least anywhere where I won’t have to run into him and be chastised for my striking resemblance to a human being.

And this isn’t just for me, you know.  This is for all of us.

During today’s lunch break, I will be posting a Petition for Detoxification by the corkboard nearest the Employee’s Entrance. If you are attuned to my sentiments, please do not hesitate to sign it. And if Toxic Manong Guard starts getting pissy that you guys are loitering by the corkboard, and I’m pretty sure he will, I enjoin you to tell him to shove it.

Thank you very much to all of you, and have a good day.

Sincerely,

Cave Girl

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.

Case Study #1: At Chi-Chi Event For Free Food

Random Lady: Oh, so you do this at so-and-so. That must be so fun!

What I should have said: Absolutely. It’s a great environment and I’m fortunate to have been offered such a rare opportunity to learn all the ropes from the ground up.

What I actually said: It’s all right, but I’ve actually been getting some really bad acne and sinus because I’m allergic to dust from the warehouse, so that’s a real bummer.

Case Study #2: At Excruciating Corporate Bonding Session

CEO: What do you want to do in five years’ time?

What I should have said: To have harnessed my fullest potential and to have applied these core strengths to bring the organization to new heights.

What I actually said: I guess I have to wait and see with this kind of economy? I mean well…hey, is it true you like barbeques?

I really hate making small talk about “what I do” because the expected cheerleaderish “Yay! I’m in a fabulous job because I’m awesome!” routine disturbs me at various levels, namely:

• a)    The idea that you present the best side of yourself by highly embellishing your job description. For example, if you have to make coffee for your boss every morning and send his jackets in for dry cleaning weekly, it’s not minion servitude, but among your “key administrative responsibilities”.
• b)   The tendency of getting framed and framing others based on occupation, which means getting to know people as they really are becomes a rare occurrence. This is why our friends from school are so precious to us – they knew us before we had namecards.
• c)    The fact that answering this question with so much consideration means that that you probably have sold out to some extent: you already see the job as an extension of yourself.

I’m not advocating that we avoid talking about work altogether because let’s face it, the job now takes up most of our lives. But perhaps we can avoid the smarmy trappings of “What do you do?” with these alternative work-related queries when meeting someone for the first time:

1. 1. What’s the screensaver on your office computer?
   This will definitely provide interesting, if not obvious, revelations on the person’s priorities. For example, my friend who loves diving has a huge photo of himself underwater and devouring a live shrimp.
2. 2. What’s your favourite office snack?
   While a seemingly trivial question, it gives a good gauge of food preferences and whether you guys are compatible enough to have a meal together sometime. You might even learn more about the other party’s food allergy history.
3. 3. Where do you plan to travel to when you next go on leave?
   This allows one to switch the topic to travel, which of course, is a much more interesting and light-hearted topic to delve into.


Rather than ramble on narcissistically about "what you do", prancing around singing ring a ring o' roses may prove to be a more cohesive affair during networking events.

Who am I kidding though? The what-do-you-dos are here to stay. And I am still struggling to find a way not to dread this question so much.  The thing is, I don’t hate work (most of the time) and I’ve actually become pretty immune to the bullshit replies. At the end of the day, the key reason why I really, really, detest being asked, “What do you do?” is because I don’t really know what I’m doing.

By “doing”, I don’t mean the actual job scope per se (can I just say my PowerPoint presentations rock?), but what am I really doing with my life. It’s amazing what accumulated amounts of sleep deprivation and pen twirling at meetings does to one’s level of self-awareness; I usually can be kept pretty happy tippity-tapping passive-aggressive work e-mails all day. However, when someone asks me, “What do you do?” it immediately jolts my subconscious to ask, “What am I doing here?”

The most emotionally draining “What do you do?” experience I had was when I met a career consultant who decided to give me a 15-minute complimentary coaching session after hearing some of my blasé work-related remarks (refer to two earlier case studies). “But Melanie, you MUST know that everyone is destined for SOMETHING. You need to create a PERSONAL VISION on how you want to make your mark in this world.” We ended our conversation with me practically in tears – not because I was particularly inspired, but because he kept pressurizing me to come up with a “growth plan”.

Convention dictates that we need to be doing something purposeful and preferably directed towards bigger and better achievements. This is probably why people go through such pains in coming up with an impressive repertoire when answering a simple question like “What do you do?”.  It’s to prove that you’re someone who’s progressing nicely along in life.

But this game plan doesn’t really work for me – life seems way too organic for such a structured path of  “doing” and my “personal vision” constantly evolves according to circumstances, or new encounters with ideas and people.

In a sadomasochistic sort of way, the “What do you do?” question is probably good in helping me take stock of whether a job is aligned with what I think is important in life at that point in time.

However, I’m still looking for ways to lessen the agony of answering you-know-what. I’ll try to see if I can get away with this: “I’m a human being and I process life’s uncertainties for a living. It has its ups and downs, but it’s been quite a ride so far.”

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Melanie Lee comes from Singapore, the infamous breeding ground of workaholics. She respectfully requests not to be queried on her current occupation.

She last wrote about what the Sound of Music taught her about life.


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]]> http://new-slang.com/2010/08/what-do-you-do-with-what-do-you-do/feed/ 9 http://new-slang.com/2010/07/awkward-only-looks-good-on-paulie-bleeker/ http://new-slang.com/2010/07/awkward-only-looks-good-on-paulie-bleeker/#comments Thu, 29 Jul 2010 04:21:20 +0000 marla http://new-slang.com/?p=2105 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.



I cannot bring myself to talk about the tender moments of my life, if those had actually existed beyond my imagination. The few times I have blogged about Friends With Potential, the results had been disastrous. I used to drop a lot of hints online, come-ons masked as ‘creative writing,’ just because I couldn’t muster up the courage to ask a boy the age-old question: Do you like me or do you like me like me?

I suppose I’m just always in denial, a little bit like a real life Helga Pataki, except I could never win against anybody in a fight, unless the person was on life support or was blind. Because of this perpetual denial of Actually Pretty Intense Feelings, I will never explicitly make the first move. I will claim that it is because, beneath all these layers of my sardonic self, I am an old-fashioned girl at heart who wants to be pursued (true), but it is mostly because I am a wuss (also true). I’d probably go as far as sending someone a note that says, “Do you want to go out with me?” with checkboxes for “yes” and “no,” but John Green and his wife have clarified that this is not, and hasn’t ever been, cool.^[1]

When I was younger, I guess I was a bit braver. I would be the first person to say ‘hi’ to a boy, and I would write about them in public LiveJournal entries. I even wrote poetry. (Gag.) But that was before all my non-relationships basically turned to shit.

I guess part of why I don’t want to try anymore sometimes is because of how terrible my romantic life has been—with the leaving, and the not-really-wanting, and the unrequited feelings. It amazes me how some people are so quick to move on to different people after a break from a relationship. How do they do that? How do they just reset themselves to fit other people? Unluckily, my heart is not resilient. At all. I mourn over relationships that I didn’t even enjoy all that much, with boys that I didn’t even really like.

It took me a year to get over the first guy I legitimately dated. He was late for the first movie we were supposed to see together, and was also in some metal band, and then he asked me to his prom (and when I couldn’t go, he asked someone else), and then he stopped talking to me. And then I asked him to my prom. Because I am stupid.



When I was a college freshman, there was this guy who was (to my mind, at least) making a move. We exchanged mixtapes and liked the same things, and had amazing conversations, which in retrospect, all actually seemed to be rehearsed and staged. One day, I found a secret on a PostSecret-esque wall in school, which had his handwriting on it, basically saying that he was not over his ex-girlfriend. This happened before a Math midterm, a subject which, like flirting and intimacy, I am not very good at.^[2] (Both the pseudo-relationship and the midterm did not end well.)

This other guy apparently told people that we had a Thing (not true)^[3] , and another person, who was nice enough but that was all, kind of freaked me out with a drunken confession during an org event, so I kind of stayed away from boys for a while. Until I met this really great guy during P.E. (of all the places!), and then I screwed that up by being my usual wussy self, ending things and then disappearing for close to two months.

In Psychology, we’re taught about the ‘fight-or-flight’ response, which are reactions that wild animals must choose between when they are in the face of danger. A wild mongoose mother will most likely stand her ground and fight, if it means that she will protect her young from being cobra dinner.

All I’m saying is that the wild mongoose is braver than I am. Cobras are a lot scarier than boys, but I chose to (quite literally) flee because being away was a lot easier than dealing with my situation.



And I suppose, now we are here. I have somehow become a closed book. It might seem that I am not, but I am. I am frakking Alcatraz. The careful relationship that I have cultivated with my parents (in which I tell them enough about my life, so that they don’t worry about me, but not too much about it) has carried over to the way I deal with other people. Sure, you probably know my favorite movie, and that I kind of really love Matt Berninger, but I don’t think people really know me. I used to think that perhaps the way I looked or the way I acted were the reasons why I never got into things that went beyond mutual liking—and maybe that it’s true and they are—but I realized that it might also have to do with the unfortunate fact that I don’t really let anyone in.

I’ve always pictured myself as married with children, but how do I get to that point when I can’t even be honest with my feelings for a boy? Aside from wussing out, I am really awkward. Sure, awkward honesty is endearing and charming, sometimes even attractive. If you are Paulie Bleeker (or any other Michael Cera character).



In real life, though, awkward honesty is just… awkward. You know how, sometimes, years after certain intimate exchanges, you think, “What the frak was I on?” and feel a surge of second-hand embarrassment for a past version of yourself? I feel that while spilling my heart out, and saying what I feel, even though these things are probably going to be the truest, most important things I will ever say. The admittance of liking someone is so astoundingly crippling to me, and I don’t even know why. I can gush about the finer points of some science fiction (like a proper geek), or outline the merits of Jennifer’s Body, or lead a discussion group focused on Kim Pine vs. Ramona Flowers—complete with graphs—but I blush and falter when it comes to talking about sex and intimacy. It scares me how the possibility of me dying as the crazy cat lady who lives next door and smells like boiled cabbage is so frakking feasible. It scares me that there are 11-year-old girls, who are kind of crazy, but have more cojones than I do.

The sad truth is this: my heart has never been this open, and I suspect that that is the reason why I have been so alone for so long. I never really put myself out there, because sometimes, it feels better to settle for a no response than get rejected. It’s not like I don’t think about sex and intimacy; because I think about that quite a lot, actually. My paralysis when it comes to being intimate with someone stems from the sad fact that I am, indeed, not as brave as I thought I was.

But I have learned that you can’t dip yourself into something and expect to be moved. You must be immersed, be truly committed. Unsurprisingly, I learned this from movie High Fidelity: “I can see now I never really committed to Laura. I always had one foot out the door, and that prevented me from doing a lot of things, like thinking about my future and… I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. And that’s suicide. By tiny, tiny increments.”

So, I suppose there it is: Get rid of your frakking walls. Open yourself up to someone you really, really like. If it doesn’t work out, tough luck. At least you tried. At least you did something for yourself, instead of just waiting for things to fall into place, as if the great successes of the world worked out just because they waited for things to happen. “Trying” is such an important thing, The Smashing Pumpkins named a song after it, three times^[4].

In the last scene of the Cameron Crowe’s Say Anything…, (Spoilers ahead: stop reading now and pretend this feature ends on a happy, hopeful note) they are on a plane, and Diane Court is uncertain. “Nobody thinks it will work, do they?” she asks. “No,” Lloyd Dobler, in his infinite wisdom, says, “You just described every great success story.”

Because I wrote this on a late night, a re-run of a Cougar Town episode (where Freaks and Geeks alum, Busy Phillips, was in a new relationship that was strange to her because it made her feel vulnerable) was playing, and I caught some advice—if a little lame—oddly fitting for my particular conundrum. Here it is, paraphrased, because I have not crossed that level of geekery^[5] yet: “But what the hell, right? Sometimes you just have to go for it. Maybe it’s what you’ve wanted all along.”

So, now, I’m going to try to be braver. To be less afraid. To be courageous. I’m just so sick and tired of wondering.




_________________________________________
^[1] Even if you weren’t planning on sending those notes, you should probably watch this video anyway.
^[2] It’s okay now, though. We’re still kind of friends. I don’t think I can ever listen to The Lucksmiths and not think of him, which is kind of unfortunate, if you think about it. I mean, The Lucksmiths are incredible. To you, if you are reading this, sorry for divulging. At least you did not come off as big of a jerk as prom-guy.
^[3] Might be my fault, because I am, oddly, super affectionate towards friends. The Awkward just comes in when I like you… or if I have this feeling that you don’t like me.
^[4] Somewhat related: The Hebrew language does not have superlatives, so if they needed to emphasize something (e.g. the holiness of God), they repeated the word many times (e.g. “Holy, holy, holy”). So, I suppose Billy Corgan is saying that you should try, try, try.
^[5] Or, reverse-geekery, as no one really geeks out to Cougar Town, or at least, I hope not.




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Carina Santos has recently joined the ranks of the unemployed. She spends her time looking for odd jobs, quoting Harry Potter and watching television. This is where she spends most of her time.





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