My Basic Work Philosophies (Part One)

Now I know why they call experience the greatest damn teacher there is. Here are some basic lessons I've learned from my very first job out of college.

1. Usually, it's a bad thing when the words "overworked" and "underpaid" are used in the same sentence. In the unfortunate event that this happens, clear your locker, furnish a polite resignation letter, and run for the hills.

2. "Hardwork," when properly acknowledged is inspiring provided that you are getting any richer with the extra effort. Otherwise, it's just "stress."

3. If you're a telemarketer, DON'T PITCH THE BITCH. They ask too many questions.

4. Nine times out of ten, it's always a good idea when the lowest paying call center makes you sign something that increases your workload for a cup of Swiss Miss and a couple of sweet buns. No, make that ten times out of ten.

5. There are times when some stupid dipshit with not as much as a degree gets promoted over you. Not exactly specific to the call center industry, but fairly common in places where brown nosing applies. And when this happens, ask yourself, "Is it my fault that I never attended Asskissing 101?"

Boyfriend Material in Heels

**That's a mighty goodlooking gay guy.

It never bothered me at first when members of the opposite sex express sympathetic regret over some really gorgeous dude's deviant sexual orientation. It usually begins with a playful tease which goes something like, Shit, and guwapo mo naman! Pakalalaki ka na lang para mapakinabangan mo naman yang gandang lalaki mo!

O-kaaay.

I have a lot of really goodlooking gay friends, and some of my straight females, being the unhindered bitches that they are, used to playfully comment on the apparent worthlessness of all that male charisma in the wrong male. "Man, you're drop dead gorgeous, but you're gay." At first, they take it as gratefully as any gay guy can since nothing in hell can possibly go wrong with unsolicited praise. In the long run, the same tiring dialogue begins to take its toll, and what at first sounds like music to their ears begin to mutate into the offensive blaring of barbed wire being fried. What my gay friends would do is that they, being as characteristically polite as they can be, shrug it off with something witty to abort further attention towards the same discussion.

But let it be known that they're getting sick of it. It sounds like being gay completely takes away their right to be beautiful on account of their over-abundant charms will never grace anyone of the opposite sex.

Well newsflash, girlfriend, and two snaps in a circle, they're flamingly gay, for crying out loud. What that means is that in terms of sexual relations, members of the opposite sex have as much appeal to them as a bucket of spit. You're seriously missing the point.

To these females, handsome gay guys are like finely crafted spoons with a hole with which to consume foamy seafood soup. And whoever gave them straights the idea that these fantastic gay guys are supposed to take part in their fantasies, whoever this idiot is, has got to be trippin' on too much peyote. Waaay too much peyote. It's either that or it's a cup of shit that overfloweth.

My point is this: they're gay, and they're every inch fabulous. Allow them to acknowledge their deviances with not as much as a finger in protest. They're pretty much like butterflies, so allow them to spread their wings and prepare to fly, and hell NO, this reference to Mariah Carey ain't no coincidence. And besides, there is a great wealth of handsome straights out there, so at least derive hope elsewhere.

Oh, and just so you know, this goes out to my beautiful lesbian brethren as well. And in this context, there is no pun intended in "fingers in protest."

By the Skin of My Teeth

I wrote this sometime ago when I had all the right reasons to believe that I might as well be terminated from my lucrative job as a telemarketer. And if there should be one word that best describes what happened next, then that beautiful term would be "fortunately."

I'm writing this with the influence of a threat clouding most of my rational thinking. Goes without saying that I am a deer fascinated by that stunning headlight growing dangerously larger as it approaches with murderous intensity. I'm on thin ice. And so it goes, and it can't be helped.

Earlier today, like an hour earlier today, I received notice of strong intents to terminate my employment in the company I'm working for. Actually, the word "intents" does not even come close to what really happened. Think "process," and suddenly the real picture presents itself in the most vivid of colors. An hour earlier, I was told that the upper management in the office are strictly bound to deliver my papers of termination. The news came to me accompanied with a thunderous shock, and it forced me to mouth the words, "What the hell have I been doing?"

That this happened so soon was something I never anticipated. I mean, sure I was reckless, and I was even more irresponsible for going on AWOL for four days this month. But the question was, whatever happened to that sweet little phrase called "due process?"

I have always believed that I am comfortably lodged in a safe haven that would not allow rash indecision to cloud the well being of its constituents. And I used this principle to my advantage by challenging them to serve me further suspension by going on AWOL for days on end. Much to my chagrin, this eventually presented itself as a corrosive habit, and now I'm at home most of the time when my colleagues are in the office, where we should be working all at the same time. That it has mutated into a habit was something I never intended to take place. But the circumstances are eager to promote the possibility, and I am now standing on thin ice.

My powers of persuasion are the least of my proudest skills, and I have no idea how I'm going to explain myself. But if there's anything more on the bullseye than anything else, it's that I have reason to believe that my Christmas is getting a little less merry than I expected.

The Teenage Wiseman Is Impossible

"We have too many youths already. What we need is a fountain of smart." -bash.org

Someone told me that everyone has their own stories to tell, and that no matter how incapable of wisdom anyone is, I don't have the right to call them idiots per se. Well, I completely disagree.

I don't subscribe to the wisdom of the teenager, owing it to the fact that we all get to realize the greater knowledge in things as we progress nearer to maturity. I'm not saying that wisdom coming from teenagers is impossible. From time to time, they do come up with fascinating light bulb moments of their own, but it makes you wonder if, having been there and done that, that should be something worth taking note of.

See, I already know how to take care of my pimples, and I've learned to maintain a wardrobe that isn't just black shirts and ripped jeans. Love isn't like a rosary, and a condom isn't something you just flash in your wallet. There is always a hundred-something ways to cheat in your finals, and shouting out loud how many beers you've already had isn't really a fantastic display of "cool," whatever the hell that means.

Redundancy isn't exactly a practical habit, and unless you're a fan of yesterday's garbage, there really is no reason for you to be wasting your time.

So does that mean I'm calling them idiots? I've been there, and if anything's right on the butt, it's that it's really an uncomfortable phase. Maybe they'll grow out of it, so I'd tell you to ask me again in five years.

Gay Gold Online

This was a letter I wrote to this guy I'm speaking with online for nine months now, and just two months ago, I found out that I was actually flirting with a straight guy. Well, it came as a big motherfuck of a shock to me, and and the first thing I had in mind was that I was barking at the wrong tree. I might as well terminate the correspondence for what it's worth.

I'm mighty impressionable by nature, and sometimes, that is a weakness.

By the way, I referred to him in the third person in this letter for the purposes of narration.

Wonald and myself are in good speaking terms again. He's straight, I'm gay, and maybe I'm just clearly stupid or whatnot, but I used to think we were flirting. It appeared to me, at least. What's even funnier was that I even overreacted to a situation brought about by my own reckless abandon.

Fortunately, I was able to pacify my frustration with a generous lamentation on my inexcusable lack of caution, and I apologized to myself, profusely, for almost allowing lightning to strike twice. Silly me, but I hope we're okay now, and I think we are. I even find it comfortable hearing him talk about his girlfriend, and thank God for that.

He's straight, damn straight, and the news is as comforting as a level-8 healing spell, to put it in RPG-talk.

I'm gay, he's straight, I'm a moth, and he's this enchanting flame on a dancing candle wick. But I'm a moth with a burned wing, so I'm smarter, and I know better than to get the other one singed. Straight people leave me flightless, and for the love of me, I'd rather be available crippled than to be permanently handicapped at all.

You do understand where I'm coming from, right?

Temptations are only interesting when they're delightfully attainable, but for the most part, the thrill of the hunt begins to fade as soon as the object of your attention withdraws all possible avenues of interest.

But hey, he is, for all the right reasons, a most fine gentleman, and he could never have stressed it enough himself. I still find it quite curious though, how two upbeat men of varying sexual orientations get to maintain a delightful correspondence online. And even more so now, when all polite restrictions, all in the name of common courtesy of course, have been established.

The question remaining is how wonderful will the spontaneity be in this kind of agreement? It might sound helplessly futile, but how do I let go of an understanding which aims to question my basic understanding of these matters. I have always led myself to believe that anyone you meet online is a potential love-interest, otherwise, they're simply a waste of my precious time. It's basically THAT black and white. But in this case, I have no other reason to cling on to, maybe that pleasant realization that there does exist an interesting alternative. Apparently, I've struck gold since no other gentle wisdom characteristic of this intelligent asshole would even bear to tolerate my gay and overflowing bitching.

But seriously, the question "where do we go from here," is also considerable, but that would imply terminating something as delightful for what it's worth. And I would like nothing better than to see how two bitching assholes of varying sexual orientations would tolerate communicating with each other on a semi-regular basis.

Basically, you're online, and you've pleasantly butchered all dwindling hope of an "extra-curricular friendship." You just love my honesty, don't you? Simply put, it's flirting online minus all the strict reasons with which flirting is defined. And though it was made so bleeding clear, I still go for it with a sheepish grin, wondering how in the world this will progress.

Friendships in the Event of an Appendectomy

Almost anyone near you will stand by you when you are doing okay, but see what happens when you are getting your nutrition from a needle. Sometimes, if they're good enough to keep, they'll even go to your hospital ward to see if you're doing fine. even if just to know if you'll live long enough to pay them off. It's the thought that counts, isn't it?

But everybody can be your friend, and almost everyone will want to be on your good side most especially if you're habitually treating them to a case of beer on their birthdays. Or on any given day, for that matter. You wouldn't mind if they never did reciprocate the gesture, but if they never did go out of their ways to find out if they're benefactor's going to live through an appendectomy, then something's not right. Maybe you've been spending too much on beer.

If it should be any consolation, at least now you know why bad investments never did return any interest.

When is an Appendix Like a Penis?

The tagalog phrase "paputukin mo sa loob" doesn't necessarily imply an ejaculation, most especially when you're putting the appendix into perspective. The first one's an overwhelming release of the penis during anal sex, while the latter only releases poison into your circulation. Both events, of course, conclude into a heartbreaking climax, where both the penis and the appendix throb and then enlarge before that beautiful and otherwise dangerous finale.

I'm thinking dead wrong. I shouldn't have been comparing sexual intercourse with an appendectomy, but for some reason, there is an intriguing similarity.

The Mother of All Posts

It's so pointless boring yourself. This is my first entry, and what a fucking coincidence for it to be born out of boredom.

You say to yourself that it's going to be one of those days, when it's already seven in the morning, and you're still awake. Nothing out of the ordinary, right, until you remember that you used to hit the sack at around the same time you're writing this. And the fact that it has always been so for two years already ain't helping either. So you plan on counting sheep, or sheeps, depending on how much you can figure until you do get drowsy, but you don't even dare come anywhere near your pillow. It reeks of last night's spit, and the smell ain't even that wretched to knock you out.

Maybe a little television would help, and then you try to recall what shows are good at this time of the morning. Dexter's Lab might be on, but you really ain't on target with that one. You don't watch the news, so that's definitely not an option, but something interesting might be on HBO to keep you glued for maybe another hour or so. So with that in mind, you hunt for the remote and start getting comfortable, and then you remember that it ain't working no more, not even with fresh batteries on. Aw crap, you'll do it manually, instead, and then you recall that the TV's in the repair shop and isn't due in another two days or so. You start muttering four-letter words that begin with an F, and then you wander aimlessly around the house looking for something to do. You see this mirror, and wonder if something good has been happening to your face lately.

You begin to notice how haggard your skin begins to appear, and how unclean you become to yourself ever since you've had that appendectomy. And then you begin on one of those endless personal debates that it's all for the better, you're body's getting a bit cleaner from the inside, and you start convincing yourself that you'll get much prettier as the days go by. You start planning on how you will make yourself better looking as compared to the disgusting sack of neglect that you are right now. So in the midst of all these pimples, blemishes, and the rugged complexion, you divert your attention to getting a bit of the glamour back, and then some.

This is not helping, though. It's already twenty? thirty? minutes past the hour, and you're still slouching in front of your word processor, trying to squeeze something in your train of thought. Have you had breakfast yet? you ask yourself, and your stomach growls in disagreement. Suddenly, you are faced with yet another decision to occupy your brain that needs to sleep. Am I going to have congee? Milk in a pea shell soup? How about spaghetti? You declare shit; you're going to have all of them.

Now that one decision has been resolved, you wonder if you're feeling sleepy yet.

Maybe I'll start a blog instead.