Life is like waiting for the train to depart: the longer you wait, the worse it gets. The only way to beat it is to join it.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
And because it's Sunday in the office
a) eating leftover rookie reporters from the Reporter Stew they made last night
b) boiling Journalist-soup with carrots, parsnipes and some additional blood, sweat and tears
Coz y'know, editors roll like that. My time will come when I too, become an editor, and shall find that the flesh of a terrified rookie journo tastes better than lamb.
I'm supposed to follow up on a story but since it's Sunday, nobody is going to answer my calls now, are they?
So thats' why I'm blogging now, as if I don't already have enough writing to do on a daily basis.
So since it's been a long while since I blogged, I guess you're going to have to put up with an extra-long bunch of nonsense.
Sun-shiney days
So yeah my old/new job has been a rollercoaster ride where I came close to being inside the Editors' stew pot on many occasions. I swear I saw my news editor look at me and think:
"Now that scared reporter... she'll be great with potatoes and a bit of basil and rosemary. Hint of pepper. Now to convince her that the pot is merely a funny-shaped chair..."
I have also gotten 'up close and personal' with some of the slimiest politicians in the world, jolok-ed Ministers, snooped around Kampar, called up people and witnessed some of the finest liars in the world in action.
Yeah, it's been awesome. I've done so many stories and written so many things I can't really remember half of them. But being in newsdesk has been surprisingly, amazing.
I have always had an aversion to newsdesk, see, because I don't do so good with giving facts as they are. I like going round the whole background story before arriving to the point because I believe in telling the entire story without gaps in them.
I'm like that in real life, and I'm like that in writing.
I've gotten some flak for that in the first few weeks, but my Lord, I think I may have finally gotten the hand of it at last. I've learnt some about giving the facts without frills, to give readers only what is necessary for them to know, and filtering what isnt:
a) new
b) important
c) or will have an impact on people.
So no; what our Health Minister had for lunch does NOT count.
(P/S: He had vegetarian food. He's vegetarian. I had lunch with him. I was pretty much invisible, he was talking to my EDITOR)
So.
On a more personal note...
I have no life except work. I think about work on my off-days, I think about work during work days, and I think about work even when I am not working.
My parents are beginning to give me hurt looks again, as if I am treating the house like a hotel, but what can I do? I need the overtime money; credit card bills a-piling, see. So if I work overtime, I can cover for any bill shortfalls.
But money is so small these days -- a hundred bucks is like ten bucks these days.
Shit, did I just type a double dash, like I do in my stories? F-it.
I'm still trying to hang out with my friends (hello!) as often as I can, and I've gone out a few times with my ex-colleagues, who've been great to me. LOADS of gossip about my ex-employer but I won't go into it here.
I'm still hopelessly in-love with my dogs, who have been crazier than ever, and continue to plague and love me.
I suspect Lucky is an alien from outer space, sent to dispense love and affection to unsuspecting owners.
And for now, that is more than enough.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Marjorie's very stale Margarine and then some.
CHAPTER 3
Matthew, better known as Bloodlust Writes, woke up with a vicious headache and a very pretty, slightly pinkish girl sleeping on his shoulder. He was sitting inside a train filled with people in suits, dresses and the work-wear of those who wished they had better jobs. And definitely better pay.
The train sounded as loud as the screeches of the Leering Men Who Killed My Only Family.
He glanced around, eyes squinted, head throbbing and legs stiff from hours of sitting. He had no idea where he was headed, but he knew what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do was retrieve the wisps of blue from within those sons of bitches who ate his father.
There was only that small problem of how, but he thought it a minor detail. If anyone can lead him to them, it’s the brown-haired girl that slept next to him. The one with a little bit of drool down the side of her mouth.
He shifted uncomfortably, and she woke up with a jerk.
“I thought you said you had a plan,” he said to her, testily. She looked abashed. “I did. The plan was to bait them with your brains, capture one of them, and force the truth out of them.” She looked downward, and rubbed a stain of blood off her pants.
“But they… were not quite what I thought they would be,” she admitted.
Writes bit back the urge to be sarcastic, mean and just a little jerk-ass. He wanted to tell her that she caused him to lose everything. But seeing something misty in her eyes softened his already soft heart.
(Of course he has a soft heart. Just because he was bloodthirsty didn’t mean he was a monster.)
He sighed. He looked around for a few short moments, taking in the other passengers, taking in the battered seats, taking in the entire situation.
He couldn’t.
But he was certain that the lady sitting three rows down to his left had a dark and mysterious past, muttering to herself and surreptitiously feeding something inside her large brown handbag a slice of bread every now and then. He knew there was a story there. Maybe she kept her children inside the bag, after she had cursed them with a spell that would keep them as children forever – except it went wrong and they ended up the size of rats.
Or maybe she had a pet mouse inside her bag and just didn’t want the station master to find out.
But that was too boring. That was not his style at all.
Marjorie was, however, looking at him strangely. Her body tense, she straightened and leaned towards him.
“You had another idea didn’t you?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “No. I had a story in my head. I can’t help it. It’s who I am.”
She nodded. “That’s it. That’s just it.” She sat back, with a satisfied air, as if she had finally proved her point.
Something clicked. Suddenly. But Marjorie didn’t notice his eyes glazing over and his extra furious biting of skin that was the trademark of his ‘ding!’ moment.
(Some people get lightbulbs going off in their heads. That was too common for him. Writes just sucked more blood and felt a visceral, innate brain orgasm.)
Marjorie picked at lint on the chair. “Whatever. You said you had an idea.”
Writes nodded. He had it. He really did. He had toyed with that idea at first but what she said just made up his mind.
“I do. I am going to follow you around. Sooner or later, they’re gonna show up. When they do, they’re going to eat my ideas. I’m going to let them. Then I am going to show them what a real horrible idea looks like.”
Marjorie’s jaw dropped. “Wha- what do you mean?”
Writes shrugged. “Well, if they can eat and regurgitate a warped version, surely that warped version is still going to be mine? My consciousness? The ideas they eat belong to me, and I figured they’re a part of who I am. Isn’t that what you said?”
Marjorie shook her head furiously. “That’s not how it works! When they consume you, you are gone. YOU cease to exist. Your ideas are all that remains of you –” she stopped. “Wait.”
Writes grinned. “Lightbulb moment?”
Marjorie grinned nastily. “No. More like an exploding margarine moment.”
But her expression softened suddenly. “This is a no-recovery kind of plan. Once you’re consumed you don’t exist anymore. I can’t get you back into your body. I don’t even know if your crazy idea will work. If it doesn’t, we’re both dead and so is the world.”
Writes shrugged. The world was of little concern to him. He was more interested in knowing what being a blue wisp of nothing would feel like. Maybe like cotton candy.
That, he figured, will be just sweet.
**** to be continued***
Ya that's all la. I am lazy now. Kthxbye.
Friday, October 22, 2010
*blows dust* FOOSH!
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
It's been three weeks since I last blogged
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Re: Your Brains
Thing have been O.K. for me except that I'm a zombie now.
I really wish you'd let us in.
I think I speak for all of us when I say I understand
Why you folks might hesitate to submit to our demand.
But here's an FYI: you're all gonna die screaming.
All we wanna do is eat your brains.
We're not unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat your eyes
All we wanna do is eat your brains.
We're at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise:
If you open up the doors
We'll all come inside and eat your brains.
I don't want to nitpick, Tom, but is this really your plan?
Spend your whole life locked inside a mall?
Maybe that's OK for now but someday you'll be out of food and guns,
Then you'll have to make the call.
I'm not surprised to see you haven't thought it through enough.
You never had the head for all that bigger picture stuff.
But Tom, that's what I do, and I plan on eating you slowly.
All we wanna do is eat your brains.
We're not unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat your eyes.
All we wanna do is eat your brains.
We're at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise:
If you open up the doors
We'll all come inside and eat your brains.
I'd like to help you Tom, in any way I can.
I sure appreciate the way you're working with me.
I'm not a monster Tom, well, technically I am.
I guess I am...
Got another meeting Tom, maybe we could wrap it up?
I know we'll get to common ground somehow.
Meanwhile I'll report back to my colleagues who are chewing on the doors
I guess we'll table this for now
I'm glad to see you take constructive criticism well
Thank you for your time I know we're all busy as hell
And we'll put this thing to bed
When I bash your head open
All we wanna do is eat your brains
We're not unreasonable, I mean, no one's gonna eat your eyes
All we wanna do is eat your brains
We're at an impasse here, maybe we should compromise:
If you open up the doors
We'll all come inside and eat your brains
(Jonathan Coulton - Re: Your Brains)
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Of Some Things Here and There
Friday, August 13, 2010
Of all things neither here nor there
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Times, They Are A-Changing
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
I wish I were braver.
I think now, I feel like I am on a plane headed for a skydive. It is awesome on the way up, filled with anticipation and a little bit of trepidation, but overall the feeling is one of exhilaration. I mean, WOW you’re going to skydive! Seeing the ground get smaller and smaller is so exciting! Everything is fine! And dandy!
But as the plane slowly climbs higher and higher, your excitement begins to wane. Fear sets in. Your fear of heights begins to set in. Suddenly it doesn’t seem such a good idea anymore. Oh dear, you think. I’m really about to leap out of a plane with nothing but flimsy harnesses and (what is essentially) a plastic balloon to save me from certain death.
Then you hear the voice of the pilot, saying “Okay, ready to jump?”
You look down and HOLY SHIT you cannot see the ground. All you see is SKY. LOTS AND LOTS OF SKY. NOWHERE SOFT TO LAND. HOSHIT, you think. HO-SHI-IT. I AM GOING TO GO SPLAT.
So you chicken out. You tuck your tail between your legs and say “I can’t do this. I can’t.”
The pilot gives you a pitying look, and then he lets you off, grumbling about wasting his time and money. He brings you down back to Earth and lands you on your feet.
You kiss the ground, ZOMG so glad for ground.
But that skydive didn’t end, actually. Eventually, you’ll have to get back up on that plane. The same process begins again. But this time, the pilot kicks you out of the plane.
So you scream on your way down. Scream so hard your throat is sore. Then you yank the lever, so that the parachute can save you.
BUT. IT. DOESN’T. OPEN.
Before you know it, you’re nothing but bits of flesh that the rescue team had to scrape off the pavement with a shovel. Brains, blood, bone and all.
Taking the leap scares everyone because sometimes, the parachute won’t open, and then you’ll end up splat on the ground.
The first time I got up that plane, I was excited. As I went higher and higher up, I was more excited. Then suddenly fear set in. I couldn’t jump. I was too scared. So I came back down, thankful, happy and glad.
But my plane won’t just stay on the ground. It will have to go up again, or else I’ll be landlubbed forever. So off I go. Only this time, the pilot really did kick me out.
I do not know if my parachute will open. Yet.
By now, again, you would have realised that this long and blabbering anecdote is supposed to be a metaphor for something. And it is.
The pilot that kicked me out (I mean it metaphorically, not literally like fired or nothing. I wasn’t fired) is somebody I (used to? I don’t know) respect. The plane I am on is my job here. And my parachute is the job offer that can be mine if I want it. But I don’t want it to be a sabotaged parachute, you know?
I want to be able to say goodbye to the pilot, who will wave and smile at me, then I want the plane to continue to go higher without me, and when I pull my parachute it will open with a smiley face.
Unfortunately, the ways things are now, I think my parachute will have a picture of my middle finger on it, and the pilot will probably throw a Molotov in my direction. Because like I said, I am a walking Murphy’s Law.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Mine was. I wanted to just do my job to the best of my ability, HECK, do MORE than the best of my ability, and to prove that they didn’t hire me for nothing, and to prove I can do such a good job I will be indispensable to the company. I wanted to prove how much I cared. I sound like a fuckin’ martyr but trust me, I am not. Why the heck do you think I am on the road to Hell now? It’s because my good intentions were clearly not going down well with somebody. I don’t know who, but somebody is unhappy that all I want to do is work hard for the paper.
I am thinking that my actions have overstepped boundaries, because the boundaries were blurred in the first place. Am I saying I am innocent? No. I am saying that all Demons of Hell ended up there because they just wanted to do something ‘more’. More is not better. Less is more, remember?
So I am going to have to stick it out. My mind is made up, and I cannot turn back, nor can I look back. I need to yank that lever and hope to God my parachute opens.
Here’s to hoping I don’t go Splat.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
It's Broken, and No Amount of Glue Can Fix It
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A Story
I first saw him with his mother, his small hand grasping tightly to her slender ones. He was scared – but of what and of whom, I didn’t know. There was a haunted look in his eyes; but that look did not and should not belong in an eight year old.
I knew he was eight because in his other hand he clutched a balloon shaped in an 8. The balloon was a cheap bright blue and yellow; the kind you get from a thrift store. The kind you get when your birthday was celebrated in a fast food chain and the only present you get is yet another colouring set.
I stopped to smile at him, and his mother, who was a young and pretty thing with the same sad look in her eyes. She smiled back, tremulous, but nonetheless pleasant. Perhaps she was pleased to have someone smile at her son. He clearly didn’t get a lot of those, being a rather skinny, fragile-looking thing with a pronounced overbite and a sallow tinge to his skin. She put her hands protectively on his mop of brown hair, and said a small ‘Hi’.
I nodded, returned her greeting and got down on one knee. I looked at the little guy and said ‘Hi’ – he was biting his nails now.
He looked at me shyly and grinned. I saw his teeth were crooked, possibly a headache in braces very soon. His eyes were blue and grey at the same time. They stayed on my face for a split second before those eyes flicked over to the large Golden Retriever next to me.
“He won’t bite, would he?”
I shook my head, all seriousness. “No way, he’s more friendly than I am.” The boy smiled again, reassured. “Can I touch him?”
I gently nudged the long-suffering mutt in the direction of those too-small hands. It gave me a look as if to say ‘No seriously, first chicks now little boys?’
I ignored its brown eyes and focused on the blue-grey ones instead. “Go on. Give him a pet. He won’t bite you.” The hands reached out, fingers hesitant until it touched warm flesh and fur. The grin that spread across his face made him all the less attractive, but the delight was undeniable. His mother looked on, a little anxious but glad that my docile canine would not be taking her sons’ hands for dinner anytime soon.
She smiled at me again. “He likes dogs.” I cocked my head to the side, my attention slight distracted by the fidgeting of my dog. I patted its head to calm it down, even as the boy fondled its’ ears – something that it hated. “Why don’t you get him one? The pound has puppies which are good for adoption.”
She scoffed. “No, I live in a one-bedroom flat, it won’t be possible. Any dog would howl in misery at the thought of being in my house.”
She looked embarrassed for a while, but hey, I wasn’t exactly wearing a Rolex.
“Yeah, I keep ol’ Maya here in the neighbourhood park because my flat is only big enough for me to stand upright and no more. I don’t sleep and I don’t need to eat either.”
She eyed me a little warily suddenly, unsure if I were joking. I was, I assured her. I lived in modest three-bedroom terrace home in the dodgier part of town. Maya was meant to keep the dodgy bits out, but so far, the recalcitrant creature only barked at lizards, which she deemed enemy numero uno.
It was then she laughed, an unusually loud sound for a woman so thin. “Yeah, Oliver has issues with lizards too. Maybe Maya would be good for him – if you can spare her?” She looked as if she overstepped her bounds.
“No that’s fine,” I shrugged. “I take Her Majesty for walks here and two streets away every Monday, Tuesday and Friday. Sometime ‘round six in the evening. If you can bring him out from time to time, he can throw her a stick. Or a dead lizard. Whatever rocks their socks, I suppose.”
She nodded, even grinned a little. For some reason, like her son, smiling made her look less pretty somehow. Perhaps the inherited overbite, I mused.
She called out to Oliver anxiously when suddenly Maya barked, once, annoyed, loudly. I quickly tightened my grip on her leash, pulling her away from the boy, who was looking intensely puzzled as to why she wouldn’t let him sit on her back.
“She’s so big!” he defended himself. The sad, scared look came back into his eyes. I tapped the mutt on the nose, whispered some admonishments and turned to Oliver. “Don’t worry, she just didn’t feel like a piggy back ride. But if you see me on Monday, I will have something for you.”
He pouted slightly. “Okay.” I looked apologetic, but his mother immediately waved my look away. “It’s alright, I suppose we’ll see you on Monday .”
I nodded. “Yeah.” I reached down to Oliver and slowly put my hand over his hair. “You take care now.” I ruffled his hair a bit, and stood up. His mother led him away, and I watched him walk with a pronounced limp to his left foot.
I looked down to my hands. In my clenched fist was a lock of the boy’s soft brown hair. I glanced at my faithful companion.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “We can do something for him.”