....That I'm basically one big whiner? So, it's time. To stop. And move on with with whatever needs to be moved on with. End of the day, I plan to submit my resignation letter (the proper one) and go home jobless, penniless et cetera. Which is okay - I am going to do what a recent acquaintance calls "smelling the flowers".
I never thought I'd be a copywriter, but I was one for almost 6 months - and they haven't been altogether wasted. I have learnt a few things, and also reached level 35 of Mafia Wars (woohoo).
2009 has been a year of endless waiting. Nothing much happened, apart from the usual KLPD, but yes, I did shift to a new city with great friends, a lovely home and awesome weather - and for that I'm grateful. I never got to see Rahul Dravid though, and for that, I am sorely disappointed.
I could say I want something utterly fabulous to happen by the end of this year, but I don't. I want it to be status quo, and very very still, so that I can hear myself think. Right now, I must finish whatever work's left, so that they don't eat my head up about how "unprofessional" I am.
Showing posts with label okbye. Show all posts
Showing posts with label okbye. Show all posts
Monday, November 30, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
The letter that wasn't
This is what I'd LOVE to say:
Dear X and Y,
While it's been wonderful working at your organisation, where I downloaded hours worth of music, videos, played Mafia Wars and Facebooked like crazy, I think it's time for me to quit. I think this arrangement would suit both you and me, because you see, no wait, what am I saying? You DON'T see. You don't see ANYTHING. You're like 2 blind mice, trying to take my eyes out as well like some crazy Saw movie. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I cannot continue to romanticize my flaking wallflower existence anymore, because turns out, someone else beat me to it. The entire point of working in a small organisation is to learn more and do more - and stick to it despite a poor salary, no PF, no conveyance and no insurance of any kind. It would have been FINE. But you know, it's NOT, when your bosses treat you like shit despite working hard and making an effort to be, well, friendly. Yes, yes, I know, I'm making it sound like I'm some sort of a poor victim here (which incidentally, I AM), but let's forget the whining for a bit. I am concerned X and Y. I am concerned because your organisation is small, and barely staying afloat and you still faff around like you're in college. You send an inexperienced newbie like me, to go and deal with a client, because you stormed out of a meeting, because you felt insulted. You almost lost a client and sent ME, to salvage things? Like, seriously? It's been almost a year since you got this office, and you've still not done it up. Your generator doesn't work beyond an hour. You forget to pay your bills. You lie all the time on the phone and you're always making fun of clients. And the jokes aren't even funny.
And let's get to the work bit. I get it agencies can sometimes be slow. Sometimes there's a lot of work, sometimes none for days. But when there IS work, and you're making me do it, kindly acknowledge the fact that you have received my emails and actually READ what I have written. Because there have been times you know, when you haven't even opened an attachment and forwarded it to the clients. And it's not like you unquestionably trust my abilities - you're just frikking lazy man. Next time, I'll just write about Debbie doing Dallas and....oh wait, there won't BE a next time.
Anyhoo. Thanks for all the free internet and...yeah, that's about it.
Toodles.
Engee.
Dear X and Y,
While it's been wonderful working at your organisation, where I downloaded hours worth of music, videos, played Mafia Wars and Facebooked like crazy, I think it's time for me to quit. I think this arrangement would suit both you and me, because you see, no wait, what am I saying? You DON'T see. You don't see ANYTHING. You're like 2 blind mice, trying to take my eyes out as well like some crazy Saw movie. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, I cannot continue to romanticize my flaking wallflower existence anymore, because turns out, someone else beat me to it. The entire point of working in a small organisation is to learn more and do more - and stick to it despite a poor salary, no PF, no conveyance and no insurance of any kind. It would have been FINE. But you know, it's NOT, when your bosses treat you like shit despite working hard and making an effort to be, well, friendly. Yes, yes, I know, I'm making it sound like I'm some sort of a poor victim here (which incidentally, I AM), but let's forget the whining for a bit. I am concerned X and Y. I am concerned because your organisation is small, and barely staying afloat and you still faff around like you're in college. You send an inexperienced newbie like me, to go and deal with a client, because you stormed out of a meeting, because you felt insulted. You almost lost a client and sent ME, to salvage things? Like, seriously? It's been almost a year since you got this office, and you've still not done it up. Your generator doesn't work beyond an hour. You forget to pay your bills. You lie all the time on the phone and you're always making fun of clients. And the jokes aren't even funny.
And let's get to the work bit. I get it agencies can sometimes be slow. Sometimes there's a lot of work, sometimes none for days. But when there IS work, and you're making me do it, kindly acknowledge the fact that you have received my emails and actually READ what I have written. Because there have been times you know, when you haven't even opened an attachment and forwarded it to the clients. And it's not like you unquestionably trust my abilities - you're just frikking lazy man. Next time, I'll just write about Debbie doing Dallas and....oh wait, there won't BE a next time.
Anyhoo. Thanks for all the free internet and...yeah, that's about it.
Toodles.
Engee.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Unrequitted Love is Over-Rated
This probably belongs in my other, slightly hormonal blog - but I don't really care at the moment. It's a little self indulgent, but isn't the very concept of blogging that? Anyway, I can delete it later :)
Maudlin. Mawkish. That would be me. That would explain the sudden bursts of effusive love that I smother you with every once in a while. In my head. And the resultant is a phone call. A phone call that says nothing really, but I know why it was made.
In my head, I’d remember a simple evening. A solitary cigarette. A warm conversation. But when we had that conversation, it didn’t strike me as particularly remarkable. But then I recall it. I sniff around for a little magic. Like maybe, the colour of the sky at the time, and it becomes special, warm. I pretend that it meant something, and then, you hear your phone buzz.
Of course, over time, I have realised the superficiality of this strange love. It isn’t anything at all. It’s contrived and petty. But it’s my security blanket. And you never mention anything about taking it away. You almost, always answer the phone. And sometimes you promise to call back, but you never do. You play the part of the heartbreaking jerk to a tee. You become a type, even though we both know that, it’s a charade. It’s a little play we’ve rehearsed to perfection. And I get the blues, but they’re really not the blues, but a little play-act blues.
You know, when sometimes you lie awake at night, and happily pretend that, this is another life, and suddenly it snaps, and you get a horrid, uneasy feeling? Well, it happens to me a lot. And it becomes so horrible that, I tell myself, so what, pretending is easier, dreaming is easier, and it usually is.
Every once in a while, you speak in a language that is so clear and honest. And I hate that language. You behave like just about anybody. A vendor, a bus conductor, a businessman. I don’t like talking to you then. You’re too real. You’re not even being a jerk. You’re just being whoever you are – and that is just so, so alienating. It’s like a fascination just died softly and soundlessly in the recesses of my mind.
I don’t long for you really. I don’t long for anything, because there is nothing to long for. You and I will see that, stripped off all our mawkishness. All our desultory conversations will come to naught. Haven’t they already? Don’t we see that when a call means nothing, and all our talk loses its way to banality? When we repeat our dreams like parrots and synchronize our sighs and our futile attempts at ironic humour? We have nothing. We might as well be strangers with an inclination towards the fatal and the sentimental. Our warmth is artificial, our familiarity is a farce.
What does it feel like not to be special anymore? Not to be the only one who perches on all my thoughts and actions? To not have any effect, any influence, any say? All of a sudden, you’re nothing but a travesty - a little running joke. Your words, when analysed brutally, never meant anything. Either way, you wouldn’t have remembered what you had said. And that, is where it is easy to walk away from this dream gone wrong. It’s just my dream. It’s just my thoughts. It’s just my foolish little world, not yours.
I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either. You’re just somebody I’ve known who keeps doing these rabbit hat tricks, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as soon.
If ever you wanted the truth, this is it. This is the real story of the two of us.
Maudlin. Mawkish. That would be me. That would explain the sudden bursts of effusive love that I smother you with every once in a while. In my head. And the resultant is a phone call. A phone call that says nothing really, but I know why it was made.
In my head, I’d remember a simple evening. A solitary cigarette. A warm conversation. But when we had that conversation, it didn’t strike me as particularly remarkable. But then I recall it. I sniff around for a little magic. Like maybe, the colour of the sky at the time, and it becomes special, warm. I pretend that it meant something, and then, you hear your phone buzz.
Of course, over time, I have realised the superficiality of this strange love. It isn’t anything at all. It’s contrived and petty. But it’s my security blanket. And you never mention anything about taking it away. You almost, always answer the phone. And sometimes you promise to call back, but you never do. You play the part of the heartbreaking jerk to a tee. You become a type, even though we both know that, it’s a charade. It’s a little play we’ve rehearsed to perfection. And I get the blues, but they’re really not the blues, but a little play-act blues.
You know, when sometimes you lie awake at night, and happily pretend that, this is another life, and suddenly it snaps, and you get a horrid, uneasy feeling? Well, it happens to me a lot. And it becomes so horrible that, I tell myself, so what, pretending is easier, dreaming is easier, and it usually is.
Every once in a while, you speak in a language that is so clear and honest. And I hate that language. You behave like just about anybody. A vendor, a bus conductor, a businessman. I don’t like talking to you then. You’re too real. You’re not even being a jerk. You’re just being whoever you are – and that is just so, so alienating. It’s like a fascination just died softly and soundlessly in the recesses of my mind.
I don’t long for you really. I don’t long for anything, because there is nothing to long for. You and I will see that, stripped off all our mawkishness. All our desultory conversations will come to naught. Haven’t they already? Don’t we see that when a call means nothing, and all our talk loses its way to banality? When we repeat our dreams like parrots and synchronize our sighs and our futile attempts at ironic humour? We have nothing. We might as well be strangers with an inclination towards the fatal and the sentimental. Our warmth is artificial, our familiarity is a farce.
What does it feel like not to be special anymore? Not to be the only one who perches on all my thoughts and actions? To not have any effect, any influence, any say? All of a sudden, you’re nothing but a travesty - a little running joke. Your words, when analysed brutally, never meant anything. Either way, you wouldn’t have remembered what you had said. And that, is where it is easy to walk away from this dream gone wrong. It’s just my dream. It’s just my thoughts. It’s just my foolish little world, not yours.
I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either. You’re just somebody I’ve known who keeps doing these rabbit hat tricks, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as soon.
If ever you wanted the truth, this is it. This is the real story of the two of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
