[ordered chaos 9]

||Life After College:  Year 2 - Corporate Hell

 

(I am)
..22 years old  
..in New York
 
(Soundbite) || 08.04.03
..Goldfly.Guster
 
(nightstand)
(x)Prelude to Foundation
:: by Isaac Asimov
(x)Harry Potter: Order of the Phoenix
:: by J.K. Rowling
(x)Bird by Bird
:: by Ann Lamott
(x)Forward the Foundation
:: by Isaac Asimov
(3.9.03-?)One Hundred Years of Solitude
:: by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
(x)Foundation's Edge
:: by Isaac Asimov
(x)Small Wonder
:: by Barbara Kingsolver
(x)Man from Mundania
:: by Piers Anthony
(x)Second Foundation
:: by Isaac Asimov
(x)Daughter of Fortune
:: by Isabel Allende
(x)Foundation and Empire
:: by Asimov
(x)Ender's Game
:: by Orson Scott Card
(x)Blindness
:: by Jose Saramago
(x)A Clockwork Orange
:: by Anthony Burgess
(x)Foundation
:: by Asimov
(x)The Eyre Affair
:: by Jasper Fforde
(x)Immortality
:: by Milan Kundera
(x)In Our Strange Gardens
:: by Michael Quint
(x)Hexwood
:: by Diana Wynne Jones
(x)East of Eden
:: by John Steinbeck
(x)Future Homemakers of America
:: by Laurie Graham
(x)Bel Canto
:: by Ann Patchett
(x)DragonLance Chronicles
:: by Margaret Weis
(x)Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress
:: by Dai Sijie
 
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Wired Magazine | Tech
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(Rx for boredom)
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teflon*
yelofngr
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esca
piXiepOOh
taejin
 
(blog this!)
lipstick, lighters, and tampax
awkward pirouettes
braindroppings:songwriter
natti
lchau
 
(archives)
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(Comments)
05.14.03
We're wireless!!
11.21.02
Blog moved from Tripod to BlogSpot. Three cheers for Verizon webspace!
9.24.02
Archives moved to main page.
9.07.02
Internet access available at new apt.!
4.14.02
Due to popular demand,
the comments section
has been re-instated.
 
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad enough to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved... The ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."

    -Jack Kerouac

[Tuesday, October 29, 2002]

"Just me and my laptop." -2pac, sorta.

Sung to the tune of the old 80's "My Buddy" toy commercial.

"My laptop. My laptop!
Wherever I go, it's gonna go!
My laptop. My laptop!
My laptop and me!"

I caught myself singing this as I was walking to my car alone in the darkened parking lot at 9 pm tonight. I was torn between an insane desire to cry and a strange urge to giggle madly to myself.

I think I've had a longer relationship with my laptop than I have with any boy. I think it's sad that a) I find that to be a funny joke to tell people and b) that it's true. Like a boy, it's maddening most of the time, and a blessing the rest of the time. Like a good girlfriend, I know all about it's funny little quirks and "special features", like the auto-shutdown joke it likes to play on me sometimes. I haven't lost any files yet, but I imagine it's only a matter of time before I do. Recently though, it's been pretty dependable. And I reward it with extra power charging in the outlet. I carry it faithfully with me from the hotel to home, it sits beside me during the commute, and it spends the lonely nights keeping me company as I eat dinner on my hotel bed. Me, the laptop, and Tony Soprano.

I think I develop better relationships with machines than I do with people in Delaware. Snack machine, laptop, and HBO.

posted by ink| 9:27 PM |
[Monday, October 28, 2002]

Hey Mr. Snack Machine, look and see.
Is there a donut in your bag for me?


Project Manager is gone. The other analyst who's filling in is wonderful. She explains everything to me because she's worked with this stuff for a year already, and she's taken on a sort of mentoring role. I love her. I want to chain myself to her leg and beg her to never leave. I now have a friend here besides the snack machine.

The snack machine and I have been having an intense relationship. Every morning, I visit him and he gives me sustenance. Usually a bag of Cheetos. Ah, breakfast of champions. Mr. Cheetah is my companion through the morning. He encourages me with those cool shades of his and wiggles his spots at me when I'm feeling down. And cheetos aren't as prone to crumbing as potato chips are. So keys of my keyboard start crumb-free. Though they get the occasional orange fingerprint on them.

Ah the snack machine...

I give him the occasional pat of appreciation when he shells out the donuts after a particularly hard day. I haven't named the snack machine, or started talking to him yet. And hopefully I'll never reach that point. Right now, I just feed him metal once in a while, and he gives me what I want. Low maintenance boyfriend. Basically a booty call relationship.

In this uncertain world, Mr. Snack Machine is one thing that I know I can always depend on. He's never failed me yet. And he's always on time.

posted by ink| 11:10 PM |

I got a set of wheels. An eight wheeler!

I spent a lot of money yesterday. I made a large purchase. Or, what I consider to be a large purchase. I bought a new pair of rollerblades yesterday. End of season, but I can't think of more perfect blading weather than fall. Chill in the air to keep you cool, and the leaves turning colors.

It's amazing how much of a difference a salesman can make. At Paragon, the guy who helped us reminded me of a used car salesman. His shirt was unbuttoned half way, his hair was slicked back over his bald spot, he had heavy gold chains around his neck, and he tried to sell me men's blades. Luckily for me, my friend P. stopped him and said pointedly that women's feet are completely different from men's feet. What would I do without friends who look out for me.

We headed to Blades instead, a specialty store for snowboards and skates. I have to admit, I felt a bit self conscious walking in there. We hardly fit the "skater chick" image. We only had the minimum qualifications. Earrings. P had 4. I had 5. Bare minimum. We stuck out. The boy who helped us though, was a gem. He actually spoke to us like we were informed customers, even though I identified myself as a "recreational" skater when he asked what I was looking for. As he helped us, the "I really know what I'm talking about" allure started to take. I had to shake myself sternly out of it. As a 22 year old woman, I'm really getting too old to be looking at high school boys. Regardless of how knowledgeably they speak about something.

I walked away with a pair of beginner skates that I felt comfortable with. And I felt good about spending the amount I did. P. walked away with a pair too that she hadn't planned on buying. The same pair I have. We also left with the boy's number. For a group lesson. Maybe.

We brought them home and tried them on right away, wheeling around P.'s dorm suite until her RA yelled at us.

I'm so excited to try Central Park next weekend.

posted by ink| 12:15 PM |
[Friday, October 25, 2002]

Be my Abraham.

I want to hurl myself off a cliff onto sharp pointy rocks. And you can pick my broken body off the rocks and offer it as ritual sacrifice to appease the angry project manager gods.

I've decided that my Project Manager is not such a bad guy. He's merely infuriating. He apparently believes in the Socratic method of teaching, where you don't tell someone the right answers unless they ask the right questions.

------------------Example of the Day
Budget is tight. I have 8 hours for a task. I finish it in 7. Yay! I turn it in for review. Project Manager gives it back to me with a million modifications. Why in the world would he not give me the template ahead of time, -before- I burned 7 of the 8 allotted hours? Redoing it all takes up more than the remaining time. I tell the Team Lead that I went over-hours. He grimaces and desperately tries to push hours around and somehow absorb the cost. Result: Team Lead hates me.

Project Manager and I spend the next two hours discussing what he really wanted. I ask a question, he thinks he answers it. I can't see what he's driving at or even how his response is relevant. He doesn't see why I'm not understanding and thinks I'm stupid for not "getting it". Frustrations mount on both sides. Project manager thinks I'm dumb. I think Project Manager is dumb. He makes comments such as "You've obviously missed the point of the last two hours." I want to say "Maybe because you DIDN'T MAKE A POINT." Instead, I do nothing but glower. Result: We burn 2 more hours of the budget going in circles. Project manager hates me too. But we've already established this.

Overall result: lose-lose situation. I can officially state that my first project is a complete and utter disaster. Largely due to poor management. But no one will ever know that. I'll get written up as "slow learner". And the Team Lead will back it up because I took too long on every task.
-----------Example End

See, in this case, under my manager's Socratic method, the right question would have been "Is there a template available for this?" and all this bad karma could've been avoided. This is where Project Manager and I deviate. I believe in the "teamwork" methodology, where everyone wants the team to be successful, and therefore you trust that your team members will hand you the tools you need to complete your task successfully. Especially in the case where you're not aware of the existence of the tool to ask for. The Socratic method is teaching is invaluable, don't get me wrong. Lots can be learned through trial and error. The problem lies in the fact that it's very time consuming. And when budget is an issue, sometimes it's easier to just give me the damn answers so everyone can be happier.

Frustration does not even begin to describe how I feel. I felt much better after I gnashed my teeth and made stab-in-the-heart motions in the bathroom stall at the office.

But, he's getting married this weekend. I won't see him for a week while he's on his honeymoon. Maybe he'll be nicer after he gets laid.

posted by ink| 4:42 PM |
[Wednesday, October 23, 2002]

I walk in the air between the rain, through myself and back again. -Counting Crows

Sometimes I'm shocked by my own wanton recklessness and lack of regard for the preciousness of life.

Or, more accurately, I'm shocked at how blase I am about the recognition of this part of me.

I drive back to New York every week. Two and a half hours on I95. Through all kinds of weather. Last week, it was pouring rain. And there I was, nonchalantly doing 80 up the highway as if it was 95 degrees and sunny. I couldn't even see the road in front of me, or whether I was in the right lane, but for some reason, I didn't care. I had this strange utter and complete faith that nothing could hurt me. I followed blurry taillights while my windshield wipers whipped by at warp speed and my heartrate beat slowly and relaxed. I drove with one hand on the wheel, listened to my music, and sped through the rain blindly. I didn't think about skidding out of control or running into the concrete median. I'm not sure I cared. I drove through a world of gray.

Somewhere in the back of my head, a little voice was wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Did someone slip something into my drink? A little morphine? I knew I was toe'ing the line, flirting with danger. But usually, people do such things to get a rush, to feel excited. I wasn't experiencing any of that. So the question was, why? Why do such things? Is it the remains of invincibility left over from my teenage years? Have I utterly and completely lost it? Have my reasoning capabilities and grip on reality gone out the window? Images of mangled metal and airbags flashed through my head, but they seemed as unlikely and unreasonable as aliens suddenly landing on the roof of my car. Nah, not me - the calm voice whispered to me, in control. And so I sped on through the rain.

Logically I know that if I continue this sort of behavior, it's only a matter of time before I crash and burn, literally and figuratively. And yet, every week, there I am again, speeding up the turnpike. Maybe this is what they call traveler's syndrome. Where you do it so much that you become immune to a sense of danger. You never worry about plane takeoff's and landings anymore because you've done it so much. Turbulence doesn't bother you, you sleep through it. You drive at reckless speeds through dangerous road conditions. Your instincts are muted. Your survival skills are gone. Like forest animals that no longer fear humans, I've lost my fear of dismemberment and mangled wreckage.

posted by ink| 10:59 PM |

Scrawny software boy is my cube mate for the day!

I've ignored him all morning. Except to offer him access to my cd's at the beginning of the day.

But I haven't been able to get a shred of work done. I did notice though, that his hair is thinning.

posted by ink| 1:52 PM |
[Tuesday, October 22, 2002]

"Makes my teeth decay with the last of my self belief." -Faithless

I rolled into Sheraton Suites last night at 11:30 PM to check in.

"Let us know if there is any problem at all with your room, and we'll compensate you in some way."

This was 5 minutes before I walked into my designated room and realized I was missing... a bed. I received 500 extra points on my Starwood Rewards card and was upgraded to a Clubhouse Suite. I let myself into the Clubhouse Suite (but not before I tried to get into the wrong door and got yelled at by an irate businessman in tighty whities) and was awed. I had two tv's, a living room, a fridge, a fax machine, french doors, and the bathroom... Oh the bathroom was beautiful. Any girl can tell you that there are few joys as great as seeing a gorgeous bathroom. Two of the walls were mirrored, so I was surrounded by a million versions of myself, frazzled from the night, and butt pale from not seeing the light of day for weeks. It was odd to have all this and have no one to share it with. It was even odder to be in all this glitz and glam when
I was dressed in everyday clothes, with my beaten-up luggage, and heavily bagged eyes.

I quickly realized that the room wasn't really all that within 15 minutes. I was surrounded in darkness as soon as I got into the shower and pulled the heavy shower curtain closed. Where is the little soft light in the corner of the bathtub area to light your way? Undaunted, I took a nice long shower and emerged rosy and glowing, into a puddle on the bathroom floor. Whoever designed these nice marble floors decided it was too "low class" to put a drain in it as well. And my room was freezing. Definitely not 85 degrees where I set the thermostat. And, I couldn't find enough outlets to plug in both my laptop and my cell phone. So I hopped into my huge bed with the embroidered covers, wearing my bright red psycho-snowmen pajama pants, looked at myself in the mirrors above the bed, and laid there feeling very small and lonely. So, this is what money buys you.

When you finally get what you think you want... you always start to doubt yourself. And I started to doubt myself. I started to think in short phrases that I carefully categorized.

I have a job. At a well-known company. With a nice paycheck. Stop. I'm in a nice hotel room. Paid for by my company. Alone. Stop. I hate my job. I'm miserable. And I'd rather be home with my dad. Stop. Do I really like this hotel room?

And the short answer to that question was, no.

The hotel room represented so many things that were wrong with my life and everyone else's. For all it's glitz and glam, it really didn't make me that happy. The shower was all wrong, I had a small flood on my bathroom floor, and why doesn't the heat work? In so many ways, with jobs and with people and with significant others, it's so easy to get caught up in the image of everything, in what it's clothed in instead of the substance of it. What is really important to me? A genuinely nice bathroom, not just one that looked pretty. Enough electrical outlets to satisfy my needs, not two tv's. What really mattered to me wasn't the mirrored walls and the marble floors. I could see a million possible life parallels in that hotel room. It was a blunt reminder to look past the veneer of situations and people. The question now is, do I have the courage to do anything about it?

I thought about it, surrounded by a million lonely reflections of myself, mocking me with the illusion of company. What happened to the person I was? I used to go to dance class every week, take photography courses, spend time with friends. I used to do more than complain about my job, and now that's all I do. Maybe because the job is all I do now. I look at the managers and partners, and although they seem to be very nice, successful people, I don't have the sense of "That's where I want to be in a few years." It's hard to be tolerant, to be patient with something that I see no future in.

I worry that it's sucking the life out of me. I worry that it's sucking the marrow, the core of who I am, away. Are these things renewable? Will I recover from this or will I forever be changed? A diluted, faded version of my former self, like a shirt that has been washed too many times? I fret that the longer I stay, the more the bitterness will eat away and pit my soul, that I'll become permanently stained. Will I ever laugh the same way again? Will my happines be jokes that mock my unhappiness? Will bragging rights cease to be about how many fun things I've done, but about how many overtime hours I've worked or how many frequent flier miles I've racked up?

I looked up at my dozen reflections, each one looking puzzled, wondering whether it's worth it. They looked back at me with tired eyes and questioning expressions. I know the answer even if I don't admit it. I tell myself it's only for a year and I'll get out. And I comfort myself with the thought that in the meantime, maybe something will pop up to anchor me, keep me afloat so I won't lose myself until I can escape. Hopefully it won't end up being TV. Or Diet Coke. I hate Diet Coke.

posted by ink| 11:10 PM |
[Monday, October 21, 2002]

Sniping Soapbox.

There are times when I'm appalled at how stupid our country is. The media especially, I find to be particularly inane. Every night, I watch CNN in my hotel room as I chow down on takeout Chinese or pizza, and I see the same things. Information on the sniper, new leads on the sniper, theories on the sniper, clues that we have on the sniper.

Do these people think that the sniper doesn't watch tv?

The same sort of thing happened when 9/11 occurred. The media would report "George Bush is now landing in Colorado on AirForce One." Good Lord.

This brings up the entire aspect of responsible journalism. Where do you draw the line between news and sensationalism? Is it really necessary to extrapolate opinions on facts? If the sniper strikes again, isn't it enough to report that he has? Why must we turn it into a story, calling him a coward and discussing how he's "taunting" the police. Who wouldn't be pissed off by being slandered publicly? Many a playground fight has been started with less than that. The standard response is "fuck you" before punches start to be thrown. This playground kid is a sharpshooter, but he has no slingshot and he's got more than his fists. His "fuck you" is the death of someone else. How much is the story worth to you?

There's a fine line between duty to the public and duty to your own ego. The media crosses that line all too often. "Do we make the sniper into a celebrity?" Absolutely so. Any journalist who tries to deny is it merely defensive. Everyone wants to be center of attention, and journalists are prime examples of that. In fact, you could argue bloggers suffer from the same kind of mentality. Everyone likes to hear themselves talk. But when your talking has direct consequences on the public at large, responsibility starts to come in. Journalists are the gossipmongers of the adult world. The Anjelicas of Rugrats. Reporting the facts isn't enough for them. They want to be the prime articulate spokesperson on any issue at hand. The smartly opinionated. Celebrity, by definition, is a "widely known person". Journalists absolutely make serial killers into celebrities. Why do these people become serial killers? Besides the obvious - they want to kill, it's also because they want to be recognized. They're a sick sort of Christina Aguilera. Pay attention to me dammit! How many serial killers show remorse for what they've done? Why indulge them? When did the pure facts become not good enough? Who needs commentary?

How many copycat crimes have been spawned by the media? My mother's age-old advice of "Just ignore them" was remarkably effective on the playground. It's no longer fun when no one's paying attention to you and no one cares. The media would do well to take that advice. Reporting to the public is absolutely necessary. Everything else is just bullshit.

To top it off, the sniper finally works up the courage to contact the police. Probably at great risk to himself. I imagine he mulled it over for days, picked up the phone, dialed and hung up again, much like a boy calling a girl for the first time. Is it worth it? Should I do it? He leaves a message, only to see the police on the tv saying "Your message was recorded unclearly. We want to understand you. Please, call us back."

I wanted to laugh.

posted by ink| 9:59 PM |
[Sunday, October 20, 2002]

Flashback. Flashdance. A History of Failed Romances. Desired and Undesired.

I was asked the other day how I manage it. That is, how I manage to attract the most low-grade kind of guy possible. My friends make fun of me for it. At any given party, I will be guaranteed to somehow pickup, usually inadvertently, the most lowbrow guy available.

It all started in eighth grade. With M.C. He had glasses that were 4 inches thick, greasy hair, and like most boys that age, he thought he was hot stuff. At the eighth grade dance, he cornered me. He breathed all over me with his Altoid breath, asked me to save the last dance for him, and gave me his most winning smile, revealing all his crooked teeth. I tried not to cringe. When the last dance rolled around, I was hiding in the girl's bathroom. I've never had luck with last dances since then. At my college's senior formal, I spent the last dance resignedly rubbing the back of some boy who planted himself beside me and proceeded to barf under our tablecloth. I consider myself cursed. Better the tablecloth than my dress I suppose.

Thinking back on my short history of romantic encounters, I decided that if I had to pick one location where I've had the most number of romantic moments, oddly enough, it'd have to be the Greyhound bus. My ex boyfriend and I were long distance from Philadelphia to New York. I've had many a long ride home, filled with thoughts of him. I've had many a ride with him on the bus, sleeping on his shoulder. I've had many a teary ride home after yet another stormy fight. My last ride on the Greyhound, a different boy was explaining to me very considerately that although he liked me very much as a person and wrote me nice emails and poems in the past, he was now going to run away from me as fast as possible and ignore me as much was politely allowed. How thoughtful. There's a million possible translations to that, ranging from "Sorry babe, it was thrill of the chase and the chase is OVER!" to "Hold me, I'm scared."

The message I've learned from all this is that I don't seem to very good at this sort of thing. I'm a hazard to myself, as Pink would say. Something must be done about the situation, or else, as Freeflowin' put it, I won't end up with the man of my dreams, just with someone who makes me feel less lonely.

What's the secret formula? You see beautiful women walking on the street everyday with beautiful men. But beauty is something that you can't achieve. After all, this is the face that God gave you, what more can you do? Feminine charm seems to be the playing field of the busted girl. When you see a not-so-beautiful girl with a beautiful man hanging onto her arm, that's when you have to wonder, "What is it about her that the rest of us can't see? What does she have that I don't have? How can I get it?"

What's the secret of the not-so-beautiful-gal? That's the holy grail of every average girl-next-door. Forget the makeovers.

posted by ink| 9:37 PM |
[Friday, October 18, 2002]

Metamorphosis.

I went to dance class today. I decided that in an effort to keep my muscles from degrading, I would have to exercise when I'm home. I left the house determined to come back in two hours with abs and toned legs. I came home in two hours alright, still dressed in all my work-out clothes, not the least bit sweaty. Instead of abs and toned legs, I had a new pair of 160 dollar shoes. I had the best of intentions, but somehow still got distracted. I left the studio early because it was one of those days where I didn't feel like moving and therefore felt like a dud. And on the way home, this pair of shoes in the window beckoned to me. Like a child in front of a toy store, I looked in, the light of the window display shining onto my face and the dark street. On a whim, I went in to try them on under my windpants. The rest is history.

What is it about shoes that calls to women? I never used to be a big shoe-girl. Boots, a pair of pumps for those formal occasions, strappy sandals for bars, sneakers, and work shoes. I had exactly one pair of shoes for each situation and that was enough. And, no pair of shoes I owned was over 80 dollars. I was the practical woman. But, as I've gotten older, I've inadvertently started to accumulate shoes. Suddenly I needed casual strappy sandals as well as dressy ones. Workout sneakers and shopping sneakers. Loafers for work, and now, my new stilettos for work. One day, I looked in my closet and was surprised to see so many shoes. And yes, they're all black.

And what possessed me to spend 160 dollars on a pair of shoes? Is it the influence of New York that calls out "Buy me! I'm a designer brand!" When did Nine West stop being good enough? I like to think that perhaps my taste has become more refined, and it's complete chance that the one pair of shoes I liked in that store happened to be pricey and snobby. But, I think that's the excuse that every girl uses when she starts moving out of the chain stores and into designers. It's a slippery slope I'm on, and I'm clinging to the top edge for dear life. For the sake of my credit card. I've never carried a balance, and I don't plan to start now.

I entered a second shoe store even after I bought the first pair at the first shoe store. I knew I was tempting fate but it was beyond my control. I didn't buy any subsequent pairs, thank goodness. But, I did get the approval of the drag queen who worked in the second shoe store. He/She asked if they could look at the shoes I bought. I pulled them out, and her eyes grew big. Then, to my confusion, she pulled the shoe up to her face and... sniffed the inside of my shoe with her eyes closed. When the eyes opened, he/she said "This is wonderful leather. How much did it cost? Over 150 for sure." Wow. It was like The Price is Right, just live. I told her how much I paid. She nodded and smiled in approval, "Good deal."

There is nothing like a drag queen to make you feel absolutely wonderful about your purchase. After all, if a gay man approves it, it's -got- to be worth it.

posted by ink| 9:09 PM |

I'm spinning my wheels.

I think I'm physically deteriorating. Like a shabby couch. My right shoulder constantly aches, my eyes always feel hot, I get lightheaded every afternoon. I keep popping up with strange rashes, and I can't hear out of one ear. In fact, everything in that ear is echoed in a tinny voice. Like I have little people living in there who are repeating everything that people say to me. Very bizarre.

Like a car, I should take care of my body. After all, it is the primary vehicle in which I move. And when you're putting low-grade fuel in your car for a while the way I've been feeding myself low-nutrition food for the sake of expedience, you have to expect the engine to get all messed up. I'm rundown. I need an oil change. I need a vacation. Not one that's jam-packed with activities and fun. One where I get away from everything, and just lounge around and do nothing. What I need is a friend in a warm exotic locale to ask me to house-sit.

This weekend, I was thinking of all the things I needed to do and all the things I want to do. I was trying to portion out my days so I could do them all. Sadly enough, only the things that I need to do, will get done. Probably not the things I want to do. Is this what adult life comes down to? Massive responsibilities? And to think, I used to not be able to wait till I got here. What was I thinking?

posted by ink| 6:04 PM |
[Thursday, October 17, 2002]

Dad.

I stopped by my parent's house on my way back to New York from Delaware. Got a nice home-cooked meal and a tummyache to boot. Yay mom! My mom bah'ed me and went upstairs to sleep. My dad sat and lectured me while I laid curled up in pain on the couch.
[excerpt 1]
"Dad, my stomach really hurts."
"Well, you should get on the road soon if you want to return your rental car on time tonight."
"My stomach -really- hurts, what if I have to go while I'm on the road?"
"Then stop at a rest stop."
"What if it's urgent?"
"Pull over onto the shoulder and go in the grass."
"But it's raining outside!"
"Who cares?"
"I'd have no toilet paper!"
"Then bring some."
"..."
[excerpt 2]
"So... do you miss me Dad?"
"Why do you ask such things?"
"I don't know.. Because I want to know?"
"Why do girls always want to know that people miss them?"
"I don't want to know that you miss me! I just want to know IF you miss me. You don't have to say yes."
"Your mother always wants to know too. Everyday after work I get that same question, do you miss me?"
"Well, do you?"
"Do you always talk this much when your stomach hurts?"
"Answer the question!"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Yes, I miss you."
"Aw, I love you dad."
"Stupid girls."
[excerpt 3]
"See you dad!"
"Drive carefully. Do you have cruise control?"
"I don't like cruise control. I do 80 all the way up the turnpike."
"Use cruise control! Don't drive so fast."
"Why not?"
"Speeding tickets are expensive these days. And I can't afford for your insurance to go up."
"...Nice to know you're concerned about my safety."
"I love you too. Use cruise control and you won't get caught."




posted by ink| 11:38 PM |
[Wednesday, October 16, 2002]

I'm too sexy for my shirt.

So sexy it hurts...

There's a fine line between a guy who knows his stuff, and a guy who's showing off how smart he is. There's something undeniably sexy about a guy who -really- knows his stuff.

Today at work, there were a few new people. One of them is the girl who was sent to replace me. Metaphorically that is. I think they realized that realistically, an analyst who's been with the firm for less than three months isn't going to deliver what they want, so they supplemented me with another analyst who's more experienced. What this means is that I'll be shoved off onto the admin stuff, meeting minutes and such. Simple things for simple minds, eh? I have to say, my ego smarts a bit from the blow, but I'm somehow relieved. Generally speaking, I don't like to leave people with the impression that I'm stupid. But I also know that in this case, realistically, there's no way I would ever look anything BUT stupid considering what they expected me to do. I'm in a "cut my losses" mode. I'll be the most excellent meeting-minutes-taker they've ever seen.

One of the other new people was a specialist from the software we're going to be using. He's small, he's scrawny, and he packs a lot of attitude. Spikey hair, long eyelashes, glasses, a dozen earrings in his ears. In a nutshell, the sort of guy I would've liked in high school and who I raise a "yeah right" eyebrow to now. Trouble with a capital T. I was skeptical, very skeptical. We spent the entire day in meeting with this guy, and by around 10:30 AM, I was beginning to look at him in admiration. He really knew his stuff. And he wasn't cocky or condescending or even remotely showman-like. Very serious, very good at explaining things, very detailed. I was impressed. And very attracted. There's something incredibly sexy about guys who are talented. The way they talk very seriously about the things they care about and break into a smile the next second. When he leaned over to draw the computer architecture to illustrate his point, I could feel my mouth hanging slightly open.

I have a history of this sort of thing. When everybody else loved Brad Pitt, my ideal boyfriend was Mulder from XFiles. Not David Duchovny, but Mulder, the character. He was so smart I loved it. And, I've had numerous crushes on TA's. But ah, you say, every college girl has had a crush on her TA at some point. No no. These are no Econ TA's I speak of. I had a crush on my Organic Chemistry Lab TA. Yes, the kind who own their own lab coats. I loved it when he explained chemical equations to me and leaned over to write the electron flow in my carbon-copied lab notebook. I wanted to say "Please! Spout more equations to me!" The prescription lab goggles weren't a deterrent. Neither was the greasy hair. I thought my days of loving knowledge-boys was over with my schoolgirl days. Little did I realize that they're everywhere. They're just everywhere but in the corporate world. Academics, music, software, art.

I tried to keep myself grounded by imagining him topless. No stretch of imagination would allow me anything but a skinny chest. After all, his wrists were the size of mine, if not smaller. I tried to keep myself business-focused this way, by thinking of not-so-sexy things. Still, I was so petrified of sounding stupid in front of him that I couldn't say a word all day.

posted by ink| 10:44 PM |
[Tuesday, October 15, 2002]

The Tragedy of Desire.

The smallest things make the biggest difference. How many times have you heard that? How many people really take it to heart? I try to live my life by the mantra "Well, it takes so little effort on my part and it'd mean the world to them." That only works if everyone else in the world takes on the mantra too. I know I can take care of myself, but I have no guarantee of others. So, in an effort to equalize things and cover my bases, I take care of them too. Thus the "I'd rather be dumped than dump" philosophy.

I've since dumped the idea. I realized after my first boyfriend that whereas I may operate by the "It takes so little effort for me to do this, so I might as well make them happy" mantra, nobody else in the world does. And when you operate by that mantra alone, all it means is that you get left holding the shitty end of the stick an awful lot. The world turns on selfish motives. Capitalism, the vaunted market economy of the planet, operates precisely on that - greed. Laissez faire, let the buyer beware. Placing yourself on the table does you no good. You only tip your hand. The game seems to be to hide your wares. Leave them in mystery and shadow to entice the passerby. Play the game.

Why must things be so complicated? Because it is human nature to be selfish and greedy. You only feel like you've gotten your effort's worth when it's all in shadow. The unveiling process is part of the product you purchase with your energies. You pay for the experience, tne anticipation, and the intrigue. Stupid.

It's a dangerous game we play. After all, there are no lemon laws in the world of relationships.

posted by ink| 10:48 PM |
[Monday, October 14, 2002]

Maybe, if I hang around them long enough, it'll rub off on me.

I originally met Yelofngr in Asia, July '01, on a summer program. He wasn't much different back then than he is now. Bitter, crazy, and funny as hell. I spotted him in the airport by his hair. He had sideburns the size of my wrist and a fro that was bigger than he was. I thought to myself, "I want to be his friend." Our first conversation was concerning whether it's more appropriate to wipe your bum from behind or reaching between. Back then, we were younger, more naive, and less jaded by life. After all, we were fresh faced college graduates with seemingly promising futures ahead of us. One of our last in-person conversations would happen when he visited New York. We drank in the middle of the afternoon in my friend P's room, contemplated the existence of hairy testicles, and then promptly passed out by 3 pm while it rained outside. I've never had such conversations with anyone else. So scientific and logically detached, we both argued our respective sides.

There's something comforting about him. His slow drawl and sarcastic remarks. And he's one of the people I hold most highly in regard. He may call himself a slacker and a loser by definition, but what differentiates him from a slacker is that he tries. He chases his dream relentlessly even as poverty looms and his dead-end day-job threatens to drown him. Now this is a person truly to be admired. He has direction and so much passion that he's willing to give up all the material wealth to go in search of it. When compared to the "practical" college graduate who's sold their soul, who really has their priorities straight? Every week he complains about his poverty, his poor mother, and his crappy day job, but he doesn't realize that he has it better than the rest of us. He may be digging his own shit right now, but at least he's free. I'm trapped inside a gilded cage screaming my lungs out. Everyday I look at him metaphorically from inside my cubicle and think. Go you. I'm cheering for you. Keep your head up bucko. You'll make it yet. You've got talent baby. Look at the way you write.

I met Teflon through my friend D. He's my counterpart. I'm D's friend from high school, and he is D's husband's friend from high school. Yes, D got married early. Tef went raving while he was in medical school. Tef tried snowboarding with me during his rotations. Tef gave up 3/4 of the way down the beginner slope (Wimp. You only win when you end up with a swollen knee like I did). Still, Tef is a man for all seasons. Conversations with him are never boring, he turns every TV-watching experience into some involved discussion about something, and though we share an adoration of the Philadelphia 76'ers, his is an educated adoration that he shares everytime we watch a game. Tef is another guy with so much passion I'm in awe. He claims to not have the capacity to love, but perhaps its only because he hands out so much of it to the world at large. An incredible brain, with numerous big-name degrees, he now slaves away with hours worse than mine, but contributing a world's worth as a medical resident. And he's not jaded yet. Imagine that.

Everyday, I think about these two people. Completely unrelated, completely separate in every way. A doctor and a artistic-media-video-something. But these are two people I hold in such high regard that I regularly contemplate their character and what they've chosen to do with their lives. I think about them everyday so that I won't lose sight of what's important in life. Tef managed to enjoy life amidst the chaos of med school and still manages to enjoy life. Yelofngr picks me up off the floor, dusts me off, and sets me back on my feet even as he grumbles. These two are the inadvertent pillars of my escape. They hold open the light at the end of the tunnel and show me, knowingly or not, that there's a way out.

For that, I'm grateful. I'm following in their footsteps. Slowly and trailing, but I see the tracks.

posted by ink| 9:47 PM |
[Sunday, October 13, 2002]

Old Baggage.

I received a letter in the mail yesterday for my 5-year high school reunion. It's in Philadelphia, which is close enough for me to easily attend, if I so choose. The letter made me contemplative. I've been mulling over the trauma of my high school career all day. To be completely honest, if I never saw people from high school again, it wouldn't bother me in the slightest. In fact, I may view it as a positive thing. The question of the day is: do I let it all go and be a big person? In an ideal situation, everyone shows up, high school is behind us after all, and everyone treats each other with equal respect. Perhaps I'm being cynical, but for some reason, I have a hard time believing that of my old high school classmates.

High school is a difficult time for a lot of people. If you happen to be one of those lucky kids who was popular, well-liked, had cool-enough parents who would buy you the latest fashions, and always had a date to the school dance, more power to you. For the rest of us who weren't that lucky, high school is a nightmare that is best forgotten and never revisited again. My parents were never cool enough to let me do anything. It was all about honors classes, violin lessons, ballet lessons, yearbook, and the occasional extracurricular sport that was greatly frowned upon by my dad. Plus, I seemed to have stayed in the "awkward" stage longer than the usual adolescent did. I was long and lanky, with arms and legs that seemed to grow faster than the rest of me. Petite and peppy Jewish and Asian girls dominated my high school. I spent most of my high school career carefully isolated from everyone else. As far as I was concerned, I minded my own business and everyone else minded theirs. The old middle school feuds I had with a few girls had cooled to frosty ignorance by then. I spent most of high school in blissful detachment.

Middle school, now that was different. In my small hometown, you're with the same kids from elementary school through high school. Middle school was a time of hopefulness. You left elementary school to become a "big kid". You wanted to make friends. You cared about what other people thought. And you thought your old friends would be forever loyal. Now that last statement is the biggest joke of all. How many kids have had their hearts broken from friends who've betrayed them during those rickety middle school years? I was such an earnest and trusting kid. So when it happened to me, I felt like my heart had been broken forever and would never be repaired. In the group of girls I grew up with, one gal suddenly decided she didn't want to be my friend anymore. Just like that, with a snap of the fingers, and years of best-friend-necklaces and birthday-slumber-parties were broken. I couldn't understand it. I cried at night for months. Not much has changed - I still don't understand it, the difference is that I've long stopped wondering. The herd mentality of middle school took over and the rest of the group followed the one renegade. Right in the middle of those strange years when you're beginning puberty, I was suddenly left alone. Well, technically, I wasn't really left alone. Rumors, giggles, and ostracism followed. Yes, if the Trenchcoat Mafia had existed in my middle school, I likely would've been a part of it. I was confused, bitter, lonely, and picked on by old chums. It was a strange time.

In a lot of ways, I've never forgiven those girls. Although by high school, we'd "grown up" enough to stop the slandering, they remained friends, and I remained chillingly separate. By that time, I'd seen enough of their other side that I wasn't even sure I wanted to be friends. What shocked me was the sheer cruelty of it all. The malicious desire to hurt. For no other reason than one girl's sudden change of heart. I couldn't understand the lack of independent thought. I couldn't understand how one relationship gone sour could so easily affect all the other ones. It impacted the way I looked at friends, the way I trusted people. It initiated me at a young age, exposing me to the vicious side of human nature. I haven't seen them since high school, but I know they're all still friends. I wouldn't say it's a grudge. It takes too much energy to continue to hate someone for so long. But it's definitely a scar.

My mom heard through the grapevine recently that one of the girl's fathers died. I wasn't sure how to feel about that. This girl was part of the group that made my 11-year-old self utterly miserable and turned my life into a living hell. But at the same time, I can't imagine what it must be like to lose your father. I would be completely devastated if my father passed away. My father is the rock in my life, and if her feelings for her father are anything like mine are, I can't imagine the grief she must be going through. I've been going over the odd juxtaposition of her grief, and my memories of cruelty. I don't want to feel myself reach out to her, but I do. Because it's her father. It's been bothering me all day.

Junior year of high school, 4 years after the fact, I suddenly received an email from one of them, W., after years of silence. It was short, brief, and completely cut my heart out. She wanted to apologize for what happened in eighth grade. She'd always felt bad about it but never said anything. She had been tossed out on her rear end by the same girls not long after I was. We started off with awkward hello's in the hall after that, and soon became fast friends. I've been thinking about her a lot today too since I've been reviewing the past. I have a lot of respect for her courage in emailing me. It takes a truly big person to acknowledge the past and try to fix it. It is in that spirit that I'm thinking about this other girl's father. I am secure in my knowledge of my grief for her. But, I grappled with that knowledge. And, in turn, I grappled with the thought that I could possibly even be conflicted over such a thing. After further thought though, I realized that I was only conflicted because for the first time, I had genuine positive feeling for this girl. Just because we have history doesn't make the grief any less sincere or true.

I suppose, if anything, I should thank the girls for giving me the childhood experiences I've had and be done with it. I'm not sure I would be the person I am without them. After all, you grow and learn through strife. At what other points in your life other than misery, do you really think about what you're worth? At what other points other than your lowest, do you ponder the meaning of life and the finality of death? To them, it may be a passing memory that they no longer remember, just one more girl among a string. But to me, it served as a wealth of philosophical thought. I don't think I would've ever pondered the why's of life without it. I may never be able to greet them with a smile, but that doesn't diminish the inadvertent gift that they handed me along with the bitter pill to swallow.

posted by ink| 10:33 PM |

"Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
-T.S. Eliot


I bought a new journal last week. The T.S. Eliot quote was inscribed on the inside cover. It was my splurge. I normally dive for the cheapest hardback blank book with college ruled paper. Hardback so that I can write easily in cars and in bed. Cheap because I go through them so quickly. This is officially Volume 11 of my life. I spent a whopping 20 dollars on it because I felt like I deserved it.

I find that I have the "I deserve it" mentality more and more often. I find myself buying that expensive coffee that I never did before, not waiting for the sales at clothing stores, partying harder than ever, and drinking more than usual, all because I Deserve It. It's the mark of an unhappy woman. It's one thing to experience life with the intensity level set on high, but its something different to enjoy it. Truly being happy isn't about setting the meter on "supernova" and hanging out for the ride. It's about being leisurely and content, enjoying the small moments, not feeling like you -have- to enjoy everything because hey, who knows when you'll have the chance to again. But at this very moment, on Sunday afternoon before I leave New York to go back to Hades tomorrow, I'm not unhappy. In fact, I'm very happy.

After all, I have a new journal. There's something magical about a completely blank notebook with its clean lined pages. The way the binding smells like the bookstore, musty and full of knowledge. The way the pages feel so smooth, so blank and enticing. So full of possibilities. What sorts of events will fill it in the upcoming months? Moments of joy? Times of desperate unhappiness? Life could go anywhere and everywhere!

For this year, I've decided to take the T.S. Eliot quote and live by it.

I will not hesitate to walk down that passage.
I will not be afraid to open that door.
I will not fill my life with unexplored possibilities.
I will not allow things to slip through my fingers due to inaction.
I will not live with regrets.

My Life: Volume 11. Hang onto the seat of your pants, it's going to be a wild ride.

posted by ink| 4:02 PM |
[Wednesday, October 09, 2002]

And the Noble shall Perish. Cold and Alone.

The office reaches Ice Age proportions after 5 pm. I know this because I've been here everyday after-hours for the past two weeks.

I glanced at the mall by my hotel this morning. "NEW H&M STORE!!!", it announced. I -love- shopping in the suburbs. Not everything has been picked through like it is in the city. And suburb people tend to be cheaper, so no one buys anything full price. This means a better selection when things are on sale. I looked at the sign longingly and realized that I'd probably never get to shop in that mall.

People say to me, "You're in DELAWARE. What would you possibly do after work anyways if you got off at 5? Watch TV alone in your hotel room? Just stay at work and get the overtime pay." What would I do in Delaware? Well.... I could go to Borders bookstore and spend time there. Go shopping at the mall and take advantage of the no-sales-tax. Go home and have dinner with my family (who're only half an hour away). Visit my old co-workers in Philadelphia. Watch free cable in my hotel room. Frolic naked. There's a number of things I could be doing. You can't put a monetary worth on my time. Once I lose an hour, I can never get it back. I want to -live- my time. Its value is immeasurable. Except by my company, who pays me per hour of overtime I work. At this point, I'm not sure if any amount of money is worth what I've been through.

Right now, I spend the valuable hours of my Wednesday nights sitting in a large creepy office, alone and shivering, wondering if the discomfort of my panty hose digging into my stomach is worth the small measure of warmth it provides. It's actually quite a difficult dilemma. The thought of my bare legs being exposed to the chilled air without any sort of barrier in-between is enough to make me shiver. Even more than I currently am. I thought that maybe the source of my problem is that I'm alone on this project. After all, it's just me and my manager that make up the team. It'd be funner, I decided, if there was another analyst on the project too. We could be comrades and bond through suffering. Much like hazing at fraternities. But then I wouldn't be able to take my pantyhose off in my cubicle. Not that I would, but it's always nice to have that option. Especially since the bathroom is far away and through a darkened portion of the office.

It's at times like these, when I'm trudging through an unrealistically large amount of word processing and documentation reading, that I feel sorry for my parents. They completely wasted their money sending me to an Ivy. I can say with confidence that I am not using one whit of knowledge that I gained in college. In fact, I'm pretty sure I could've done this equivalent job straight out of high school, just for a lower salary. Why does that piece of paper vault you into a higher socioeconomic bracket when in reality, you're the same hack as a high school graduate? If anything, I feel like a college degree is likely to make you more dissatisfied with life. College teaches you to expect great things of yourself. To dream, to challenge everything - from "How many beers can I down in one hour?" to "Hey, I think the textbook is wrong!" Real life, however, is a study in mediocrity. How many people are truly challenged by their lives after graduation? My manager is supposedly one of the elite here. He's extremely intelligent, but what he's doing doesn't seem particularly difficult either. And the Partner in charge, I think all he does is attend meetings, check on status, and respond to email. Do we really stop using our brains after school is over? Is this it? What is the purpose of education if it never goes anywhere? It's like training a runner for the Olympics and then letting him rot afterwards. Is the quest-for-self-improvement traded for the quest-for-status-and-money?

The sad part is, the people who do end up running the Olympic race are the ones who are least compensated for their nobility. The people in the research facilities thinking up the cure for cancer, the people in the think tanks thinking up new laws of physics, these are the people who are truly noble. They challenge themselves to the end in the name of trailblazing and discovery, all for the benefit of mankind. They go unappreciated, uncompensated for their efforts. When's the last time you heard of a researcher striking it rich? It's always the big pharma's who reap the benefits. I'm starting to sound communist.

But, what can you expect of a world that turns on money and image?

posted by ink| 8:28 PM |
[Tuesday, October 08, 2002]

The Cowardly Lion. That's me.

Last night, I bit the bullet and spoke to my manager about the situation. Or at least, that was my intention. The only thing I ended up successfully accomplishing was conveying my frustration. I didn't address the sarcastic comments or the face-rubbing when I ask a question. Mainly because I chickened out. I said that I felt like I wasn't meeting expectations. And that I felt like he was frustrated with me and my inability to digest 400 pages in one blow and still have 100% retention rate. In a nutshell, I'm drowning in the ocean and he's still screaming "SWIM SWIM!" as I sink.

He explained his philosophy to me a bit. He thinks its better to overwhelm someone than underwhelm them. He grew up in a family with tough love. Thus, he applies the same sort of ideas at work. High expectations, and the "your best isn't good enough" philosophy. Funny, I grew up in the same sort of family environment. Except I had the comfort of knowing that my dad really -does- love me even when he's critical. I have no such assurance of my manager when he's cutting me down. Perhaps this is his way of telling me that he doesn't -really- hate me, he just acts like he does.

In his own defense, he pointed out that he did compliment me on my Meeting Minutes. I refrained from mentioning that he made about 22 negative comments about it first. He did say that it sounds like I need small "wins" in order to be happier and that he'd try to work on that. That made me feel extremely lame, like I'm a baby who needs to be coddled and encouraged to be happy. The sad part is, it's absolutely true. It's my first project within my first month here, I'm not comfortable enough yet in my capabilities to take the ball and just run with it. I need some reassurance that I'm doing things right. Needy! And it made me squirm with humiliation to have him acknowledge it and concede to give me small "wins". My face flushed, I turned hot, and my sweater suddenly felt itchy.

To be honest, I'm not sure if I accomplished anything with the 4 hour long discussion last night. Besides the realization that he has no idea that he's being mean. I suppose that is comforting in some sense, that perhaps he's just naturally scathing and not intentionally so.

posted by ink| 10:20 PM |
[Sunday, October 06, 2002]

Home, Home on the Range.

I used to think I disliked New York because I was a suburbs-gal. In reality, I'm not a suburbs-gal at all. I'm just a my-home-suburb gal. In other words, I'm a homebody. I came home today for my dad's birthday. I hopped in our old family car, cruised down the familiar streets and lanes, visited my old haunts, and felt a strange sense of freedom and relaxation that I don't feel anywhere else. Now this, is truly the essence of home. We sat down to dinner at the round kitchen table I've eaten at since I was 3, ate the same mom-dishes I've had most of my pre-college life, argued over the same things with my dad that I always do, and I jiggled the lock in that special way it needs in order to lock our front door at night. Not that we really need to lock our front door in our neighborhood. I worry about what I'm going to do if my parents ever move. Will I never get this feeling of utter comfort again?

I stopped by my friend D's house while doing my rounds. Her house is always one of the stops I make when I'm home. Both of us are strangely disillusioned with the same things in life. She recently started a new job as well, and is in a similar manager-managee conflict that I'm in. After prolonged discussion, I came to a few realizations about myself.

I don't work well with people.

I work best if someone gives me a project, and then leaves me in the corner to do my work. If I have questions, I'll come and ask. Otherwise, I do best if left alone. You could say that everyone works best that way, but that dealing with other people and their quirks are part of teamwork. See, that is exactly where my fatal flaw lies. Over the course of tonight and a seemingly innocent conversation with D, I came to an epiphany: I am not suited for business.

I've decided that being successful in business is dependent largely on one thing: tolerance for assholes. Being extremely capable is another requirement for being successful, but no amount of talent and skill is going to get you anywhere in business if you can't learn to manage people. That's where my problem lies. I have an extremely low tolerance for jerk behavior of any kind. Any signs of it, and I become tunnel visioned. All I can think about is how miserable I am and how desperately I want to find some way - any way - to slither out of the situation. In a nutshell, I'm a big wimp. On my way home last week, I caught myself toying with the thought of quitting and doing calculations to figure out whether I could still afford my rent.

Like Office Space, most people just take it and fantasize of revenge. That's what I can't do. I can't just take it. I need out. Immediately. Preferably to a place where my talents will be appreciated, I will be treated like an intelligent human being, and not accused of doing anything and everything that can get me fired. I've decided that Dilbert humor is one of the death tolls of young-adult-joy. When you reach a point in life where you can understand Dilbert cartoons and find them humorous, it's a sign that you're in a bad place. Your job has squashed the joy out of you, and you're likely embittered by upper management. How do such people get promoted to managerial positions anyways?

The biggest mystery always revolves around the discovery of managerial personal life. Whether its the picture of the kid, or the photo of the family, managerial personal lives never fail to fascinate the underlings. D's manager has a picture of his son on his desk. We conjecture that he -must- be divorced. It's hard for us to imagine him with a son, much less a wife. But oddly enough, the thought is sadistically comforting. Even if you're terrible and completely lacking in social tact, you can still find someone who'll be willing to marry you.

I used such an example tonight at dinner to comfort my mom in her distress of the potential existence of grandchildren. If such people can find others to love them enough to procreate, then the chances of me being an old-maid are greatly diminished. See mom? No worries.

posted by ink| 10:33 PM |

Hades.

The weekend has been blissful. I've never been so happy to be back in New York. I spoke to my HR rep on Friday about my working environment and almost cried in her office because she was being so nice to me and no one had been nice to me all week. In fact, the entire weekend, I felt like everyone was -so- nice. All my friends, my roommates, people in the subway.... There were no degrading comments made about my intelligence, my learning rate, my character. But that's what I will return to tomorrow when I go back down to work on the project.

I feel like Persephone from the Greek myths, but on a weekly cycle instead of a yearly seasonal one. I spring up every weekend when I come back to New York and I return to Hades every Monday. The only difference is that my manager, who would be the equivalent of Hades, does not love me at all. That is one thing that has been made abundantly clear.

I took the opportunity to drink and make merry before I had to go back. Plum wine. I had it for the first time yesterday at dinner with my friend. Between the two of us, we finished half a carafe and stumbled out of the restaurant at 6:30 pm, drunk. Delicious! It's so sweet and yummy and light. Nothing gets me drunker faster than wine. Oh what a cheap date I'd make...


posted by ink| 11:00 AM |
[Thursday, October 03, 2002]

If I get hit by a truck tomorrow, I can always think, "Well, at least I learned how to make a damn good diagram in my lifetime!"

Let me tell you, there is nothing more creepy than being alone in the office at night and having the the printer suddenly whirr to life behind you. And, there's nothing that makes you feel more stupid than involuntarily shrieking when you hear it.

So. Second day on the job yesterday and I was at the office till 2 AM. Third day today, and I'm still hanging around. Way to usher in a new year. Today, or, yesterday now, I turned 22, and at midnight on October 2nd, I believe I was having my diagram criticized for the fourteenth time and told to do it over again, with a million more minute changes.

I killed an acre of trees yesterday alone printing out diagrams.

So. Now that I'm 22 + 1 day old, I decided to take stock of my life and decide how far I've come. Can I say that I feel like an adult now? I seem to exhibit all symptoms of the typical adult. I hate my job. I'm discontent. I eat donuts as the sole source of joy in my workday. I can't even put up the away messages I'd like on my instant messenger.
"Post nasal drip is killing me."
"Still at work. Yes, STILL at work."
"I'm a slave for you - Britney Spears, the analyst version."
Somehow, none of them seem appropriate for my manager to see when he sends me files.

Ah, my manager. His hobby seems to be telling me stories of how analysts have been fired in the past. And when he's not telling me such stories, he reminds me of it any chance he gets. I've heard the phrase "You know, you can get fired for that" in response to every possible thing.

"Oh, I see you parked in client parking."
"Yeah, I figured since I pulled in at 10 pm, it'd be nicer to park closer to the door."
"You know, you can get fired for that."
"But it's 10 pm. No clients are here at this hour. And if they were, there's 20 other client spaces."
"You can still get fired. People who've done that in the past are no longer with the firm."
"....Well, is it okay to park in visitor parking at least after business hours? It seems silly to walk
so far in the dark otherwise."
"Are you a visitor? I'm pretty sure you're an employee."

There are never real jokes here. Only jokes with a point.

And the occasional cutting comment. "The purpose of this exercise, which you obviously missed, was to..." It's like medication that you have to take everyday. I get my daily dose of comments that border on being completely rude and leave me with my mouth open and sputtering for excuses. I've only been here three days, but I'm sure building a lot of character.

I caught myself driving out of the parking lot last night with a deep furrow between my brows. I rubbed it and realized that this is probably how my dad got his permanent brow wrinkle. I flipped on the radio and realized that both rock and hiphop made my head hurt. Classical was the only way to go. Is this how my mom feels 100% of the time when she won't allow my brother and I to listen to our radio stations? Is this why she's always so bitchy?

My first week on the project ends tomorrow, and I already feel like an inmate about to be released into the sun.

posted by ink| 1:15 AM |
(Acknowledgements)


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