I have the writer’s itch yet again. After over a year of abandoning this ambitious pursuit, I’m at it one more time.
Writing is a forgotten craft that I’ve unconsciously put back in the backseat to pave the way to my idea of a young, urban professional’s unique eutopia (or maybe in the tradition of the SSDD mantra, a yuppie’s sleazy nightmare). While I never had the slightest intention to develop amnesia over this scribe’s skill, working in a graveyard-shift job that requires you to fake your accent and be extra-patient when dealing with offshore Ed, Edd and Eddy customers will mercilessly let you do just that. At first, I thought if only I had the resolve to write at least a few strings of sentences even only during my day off, then it would allow me to continue honing this love for writing. I said if this is really something that I love to do, then I won’t forget it that easily.
Truth is, I did not.
Over the first few months that I became a slave of the corporate yuppie tag, I’ve been able to religiously chronicle a series of unfortunate (and rarely sometimes, fortunate) events that made a mark in my mind even during more common bouts of short term memory loss. I was doing quite well with my resolve until slowly, like a candle wick being extinguished inch by little inch, entries that were originally two pages long in the slim Blue Feather notebook were reduced to measly half-page lazy diatribes. And inevitably, it came to a point where the lousy compositions became mere one-liner, dependent clauses like “Stressed out. Had too many calls. Zzzzzzz…”
How utterly pathetic.
So my predilection for adjectives and vivid verbs and words that pictured a thousand images went into an unforeseen hiatus, eventually dying a natural death while I continued to talk my way over overseas moolah in one of the largest international call center companies up north. What is curious though is how I got hooked up into this kind of written ramblings in the first place when in fact, I am supposed to deal with monetary numbers, which I surmise I would never have the chance to lie down on in reality.
Allow me to state a digression: I took a course in college that dealt with making sure companies don’t cheat over their taxes, examining financial records and ensuring that the numbers are accurate right up to the last centavo, and ascertaining that their figures are good to go to merit an unqualified opinion. Whoever said that people good in Math are ignoramuses in English and folks commanding the written word with ease are stupid in the figures calisthenics is ought to be rebutted. (But that is another story, which merits another blog entry.)
Several attempted but failed blog sites later, however, I find myself writing my very first entry for this new (and hopefully, last) blog site yet again. Here I am at the living room of some friends’ apartment scribbling words upon words like there’s no tomorrow, whose publication I would never know if any Internet passerby looking for some arousing “hoinky toinky” discreetly at one Trojan-packed R18 site (in spite of a “Strictly No Porn Browsing” sign conspicuously dangling on the cafe’s wall) would stumble upon.
While I continue to write and finish these strings of sentences with a building irritation over a runny Rudolph nose leaking with a steady supply of sticky, virus-filled mucus, an itchy throat that is suffering from dry cough and that is going to be scratched with a blunt blade any time now, and a pair of watery, puffy eyes that has endured 18 hours of sleeplessness and outlasted crazy friends filling their heads with possible CPA Board Exam questions ’till the wee hours of dawn, I have come to a resolution to keep on writing - and write like mad if I have to - in order to keep this passion for the pen anything but short-lived.
I am aware that most writers in the blogosphere today have the tendency to write about their freakin’, selfish me-myself-and-I talk, even jotting down anything trite and banal like what they friggin’ ate for breakfast, or how they were amused and mesmerized by their cute, wtf-I-don’t-freakin-care PE instructor’s pre-workout stretching, or how they exchanged stupid pleasantries with their gawddamn beaus who probably are a few strings away from snapping and calling it quits due to getting used to familiar relationship routines.
These are people who think they’re God’s gift to the blogosphere but in truth only deserve to be annihilated for polluting the Internet with shallow I am the fuckin’ apple of the fuckin’ universe’s eyes shindigs. Some bunch of self-conceited, narcissistic megalomaniacs who think their prose products are crystal reincarnates of some archaic classics.
And although I admit I will be caught jumping into this benign blog entries bandwagon every once in a while, I will try my very best to slash my wrists before I nurture the abhorring act to remind myself that people are not interested with my mundane, boring life. If I find myself guilty of selfishly doing a jeezuz-christ-what-the-gawddamn-bullshit-are-you-talking-about monologue, I will try my very best to at least make it as most interesting and as most engaging as possible. Blogs, after all, are a reflection of our freakin’ narcissistic extension to extol and gratify our gawddamn boring lives.
In hindsight, I am wishing that this blog shall become my shock absorber of the things that make my mundane life categorically engaging. It will hopefully be a notepad of the absurdities and idiosyncrasies inherent in my ego-boosting personality, a chronicle of the day’s humdrum revelations that will eventually go into my gray matter’s recycle bin by the time I get ready to hibernate at night. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this (pardon my lack of a better word) “diarying” won’t be as short-lived as this evening’s overhyped news coverage of what’s hogging the limelights.
On a lighter note, I’d like to think that there are many fringe benefits I may derive from sitting in front of this lifeless shell of circuits and gigabytes to make a bloody “journal entry” (whoever said that Accounting and blogging can never be mutually exclusive?). These are as follows:
1. A perfect piece of exercise for my numbing, underused, long fingers
2. A chance to get even with the wicked ways of the world by polluting it with my randomly semi-idiotic, semi-ingenious ideas
3. An opportunity to get even with the bitchy vent outs of ugly everyday real-life villains who make life worse than what it already is
4. A surreal escape from social stagnation
5. A means to become one step closer to my devious plan of world domination
6. A suitable medium to practice a rough gift that I intend to become not only perfect but also permanent - writing with wit, passion, and sheer brilliance
And so at nearly less than a quarter before four at dawn, with nobody to keep me company but Aaron Eckhart’s silhouette and his “I believe in Harvey Dent” badge printed in the black KFC tumbler, a pile of crumpled mucus-filled tissue dried out by the whirring ceiling fan’s humid blast, and minute, busy ants marching up to rob the bowl on the table of its carrots and cubed potatoes and sliced meat in blood-red sauce content, I call this day a night and I begin the saga of a narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard and his belief in the SSDD mantra.
Writing is a forgotten craft that I’ve unconsciously put back in the backseat to pave the way to my idea of a young, urban professional’s unique eutopia (or maybe in the tradition of the SSDD mantra, a yuppie’s sleazy nightmare). While I never had the slightest intention to develop amnesia over this scribe’s skill, working in a graveyard-shift job that requires you to fake your accent and be extra-patient when dealing with offshore Ed, Edd and Eddy customers will mercilessly let you do just that. At first, I thought if only I had the resolve to write at least a few strings of sentences even only during my day off, then it would allow me to continue honing this love for writing. I said if this is really something that I love to do, then I won’t forget it that easily.
Truth is, I did not.
Over the first few months that I became a slave of the corporate yuppie tag, I’ve been able to religiously chronicle a series of unfortunate (and rarely sometimes, fortunate) events that made a mark in my mind even during more common bouts of short term memory loss. I was doing quite well with my resolve until slowly, like a candle wick being extinguished inch by little inch, entries that were originally two pages long in the slim Blue Feather notebook were reduced to measly half-page lazy diatribes. And inevitably, it came to a point where the lousy compositions became mere one-liner, dependent clauses like “Stressed out. Had too many calls. Zzzzzzz…”
How utterly pathetic.
So my predilection for adjectives and vivid verbs and words that pictured a thousand images went into an unforeseen hiatus, eventually dying a natural death while I continued to talk my way over overseas moolah in one of the largest international call center companies up north. What is curious though is how I got hooked up into this kind of written ramblings in the first place when in fact, I am supposed to deal with monetary numbers, which I surmise I would never have the chance to lie down on in reality.
Allow me to state a digression: I took a course in college that dealt with making sure companies don’t cheat over their taxes, examining financial records and ensuring that the numbers are accurate right up to the last centavo, and ascertaining that their figures are good to go to merit an unqualified opinion. Whoever said that people good in Math are ignoramuses in English and folks commanding the written word with ease are stupid in the figures calisthenics is ought to be rebutted. (But that is another story, which merits another blog entry.)
Several attempted but failed blog sites later, however, I find myself writing my very first entry for this new (and hopefully, last) blog site yet again. Here I am at the living room of some friends’ apartment scribbling words upon words like there’s no tomorrow, whose publication I would never know if any Internet passerby looking for some arousing “hoinky toinky” discreetly at one Trojan-packed R18 site (in spite of a “Strictly No Porn Browsing” sign conspicuously dangling on the cafe’s wall) would stumble upon.
While I continue to write and finish these strings of sentences with a building irritation over a runny Rudolph nose leaking with a steady supply of sticky, virus-filled mucus, an itchy throat that is suffering from dry cough and that is going to be scratched with a blunt blade any time now, and a pair of watery, puffy eyes that has endured 18 hours of sleeplessness and outlasted crazy friends filling their heads with possible CPA Board Exam questions ’till the wee hours of dawn, I have come to a resolution to keep on writing - and write like mad if I have to - in order to keep this passion for the pen anything but short-lived.
I am aware that most writers in the blogosphere today have the tendency to write about their freakin’, selfish me-myself-and-I talk, even jotting down anything trite and banal like what they friggin’ ate for breakfast, or how they were amused and mesmerized by their cute, wtf-I-don’t-freakin-care PE instructor’s pre-workout stretching, or how they exchanged stupid pleasantries with their gawddamn beaus who probably are a few strings away from snapping and calling it quits due to getting used to familiar relationship routines.
These are people who think they’re God’s gift to the blogosphere but in truth only deserve to be annihilated for polluting the Internet with shallow I am the fuckin’ apple of the fuckin’ universe’s eyes shindigs. Some bunch of self-conceited, narcissistic megalomaniacs who think their prose products are crystal reincarnates of some archaic classics.
And although I admit I will be caught jumping into this benign blog entries bandwagon every once in a while, I will try my very best to slash my wrists before I nurture the abhorring act to remind myself that people are not interested with my mundane, boring life. If I find myself guilty of selfishly doing a jeezuz-christ-what-the-gawddamn-bullshit-are-you-talking-about monologue, I will try my very best to at least make it as most interesting and as most engaging as possible. Blogs, after all, are a reflection of our freakin’ narcissistic extension to extol and gratify our gawddamn boring lives.
In hindsight, I am wishing that this blog shall become my shock absorber of the things that make my mundane life categorically engaging. It will hopefully be a notepad of the absurdities and idiosyncrasies inherent in my ego-boosting personality, a chronicle of the day’s humdrum revelations that will eventually go into my gray matter’s recycle bin by the time I get ready to hibernate at night. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this (pardon my lack of a better word) “diarying” won’t be as short-lived as this evening’s overhyped news coverage of what’s hogging the limelights.
On a lighter note, I’d like to think that there are many fringe benefits I may derive from sitting in front of this lifeless shell of circuits and gigabytes to make a bloody “journal entry” (whoever said that Accounting and blogging can never be mutually exclusive?). These are as follows:
1. A perfect piece of exercise for my numbing, underused, long fingers
2. A chance to get even with the wicked ways of the world by polluting it with my randomly semi-idiotic, semi-ingenious ideas
3. An opportunity to get even with the bitchy vent outs of ugly everyday real-life villains who make life worse than what it already is
4. A surreal escape from social stagnation
5. A means to become one step closer to my devious plan of world domination
6. A suitable medium to practice a rough gift that I intend to become not only perfect but also permanent - writing with wit, passion, and sheer brilliance
And so at nearly less than a quarter before four at dawn, with nobody to keep me company but Aaron Eckhart’s silhouette and his “I believe in Harvey Dent” badge printed in the black KFC tumbler, a pile of crumpled mucus-filled tissue dried out by the whirring ceiling fan’s humid blast, and minute, busy ants marching up to rob the bowl on the table of its carrots and cubed potatoes and sliced meat in blood-red sauce content, I call this day a night and I begin the saga of a narcissistic, angst-ridden bastard and his belief in the SSDD mantra.
