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.

It's Broken, and No Amount of Glue Can Fix It

I used to have a Barbie Doll I liked very much.

Then she got broke, because I was too rough (yeah I was a doll-killer) and I chopped her hair off in effort to make her more interesting. Didn't work.

When she got broke, I dumped her into an old box and never looked at her again till it was time to throw her out/donate her to charity. (I think there is a Toy Story lesson here I should learn but I am too depressed. I'll deal with my guilt later.) Broken toy mah. Why keep?

I tried to keep her. I did. I re-cut her hair (made it worse), I coloured her lips and eyes with pretty colours (she looked like a clown), I bought spare shoes (then it went missing less than two days later) and I dressed her in spare clothes (also torn, caught it on her foot and was rough). So suffice to say, she got worse the more I tried to 'fix' her.

Yeah, so the conclusion here is I was a bad toy-owner. And by now you would have realised that this Barbie doll is actually a metaphor for my job. Which I love, very much, but it got broke when I tried to do more with it and fix it.

Because life is such that the more you try, the worse things get. It applies everywhere - I am a walking Murphy's Law, because if anything can go wrong for me, it will. The more I try, the worse I make it. It happened three years ago, it happened three days ago, and it will happen in right about three seconds... because THAT'S HOW MY LIFE WORKS.

Also added the fact that I am quite a stupid and clumsy person la, but I've seen stupider people get away with being stupid.

I messed up something very important to me a few years back, and now I am possibly doing it again... but this time it's through no fault of mine. Or maybe it is, I wouldn't know. I can no longer tell the difference between what I should do and what I shouldn't do.

Just a two days ago I received a 'dressing down' from a person who, in all fairness, has been negligent in the first place. Suddenly wishing to take charge and take power is not the way to work - especially since you have been shirking your duty for a long while, and I've been picking up your slack. I work harder than anyone else in this company (except the Sales team, they make the money, they work damn hard) and it isn't fair that I am accused of insubordination and of being argumentative.

The person I thought would actually listen and understand my side of things turned out to be... Not. At all. And all I've worked for suddenly is rendered useless and insignificant. And suddenly the freedom I am given is taken away. And worse of all, it is a yo-yo situation and I am suddenly very unsure of my footing.

You cannot take back what you've given, it's not fair. I don't mind a scolding, but only when it's fair. I've taken much worse scoldings before, and it's okay if it comes from fairness. But this isn't.

I am going to tender my resignation come end of the year, so as to give my HR time to find a replacement. I am going to go back to theSun's job offer and take them up on it. I cannot work in a place where someone wants power but not the responsibility.

Am I about to plan a mutiny? Just my own. Just my own. I quit. Bye bye.

A Story

Random story that emerged from the sheer boredom of an unusually slow day at work. It was around 30 minutes to 6pm so I hacked this out for the amusement of V. Thought I's post this up to placate YOU. Heh.

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.”