Today I "unprotected" all my old entries and upon doing so I realized that you and I have had quite the journey together. You've witnessed some atrocious spelling errors (heirgo!?!); allowed me to wallow in my heartache; permitted the articulation of every embarrassing, psycho ex-girlfriend dribble; facilitated my perennial moments of procrastination; and most importantly, helped me eloquently punctuate my tedium.
It is with a bundle of bittersweet excitement that I write to inform you of my imminent departure from your webspace. You see, one of you very own, has coaxed me into joining a new a blogsphere. It feels like a better fit for me, as the non-sensical alias 'makebelieve_me' no longer resonates. Not that it ever did, but it's become too dorky, even for me.
So as I bid my final farewell, let me conclude in the same manner it began -- with an anecdote reeking of Shirley'isms:
Today, while I was walking around downtown with my over-sized cargo pants hanging halfway down my ass, I bumped into a group of finely attired business people who looked my age. They were nicely put together, with blazers, sharp collars and cufflinks in all the right places. Behind them was a trail of sophistication, success and wealth. For a second, I was consumed with admiration and almost envy. I could have that. I should have that. Why don't I have that? But then I did a double take and thoughtfully asked myself, do I want that? I entertained that thought for the rest of my break. Finally, I saw a chic boutique and confidently walked in. I carefully perused the store and ended up purchasing a sleek black sweater -- with a monkey on it. So evidently, no, I don't want that.
- wrote an e-mail to Belinda - scoured the entertainment wire - opened MSN to no avail because apparently my friends have lives at 9:30 in the morning - subscribed to four PR-related RSS feeds - watched a 20 minute Kevin Smith interview - opened MSN again - and chatted for a good hour - youtube'd the latest episode of Entourage - watched another 20 minute Kevin Smith interview
What did I learn today? Kevin Smith is a hilarious storyteller. And -- my job sucks. 8.5 more days.
For the last couple days I've been feeling like the reluctant participant of a another neglectful relationship. You know, the ones where the guy is aloof; he doesn't call or e-mail; doesn't show any sentiment of care or appreciation; and for every second of every waking minute, you feel like you're at the brink of self-dissolution. All I want is...contact.
You see, I just underwent an interview process with a company that I want to work for. I pretty much had it in the bag, up until my 3rd interview with the senior PR manager. Our conversation ended when I made a remark so mentally retarded that it could only be explained by an unconscious consumption of some judgment altering drug. I told him I was like a bird. Yes, I said "my creativity knows no bounds -- kind of like a bird". And with that, he awkwardly smiled and said, "you'll hear from us in 48 hours."
So now I'm waiting and wallowing in my self-defeat. Man, a bird? I could've said, "the weather's gorgeous today" or "hey, Lance Bass is gay eh?", but no, no -- let's talk about how I'm like those feathery, chirpy things that regurgitate their own food to feed their young.
This waiting is taking too long. I'm pretty sure I was one of their last candidates, if not the last. All I want now is for them to call me and reject me and then life will go on to the brisk palpitations of my drug-induced heart.
OKAY, I'll stop the melodrama now. I'm really not that ridiculous to so inanely drop a cliche analogy like that. He had actually asked me, "if you were an animal, what animal would you be?" So I said 'bird'. Granted, it's still a strikingly stupid answer, but not nearly as absurd as this entry made it sound. AND, likely, if I don't get the job, it'll have more to do with the heightened charm, charisma and intelligence of the other candidates, than it will to do with my bird simile. But nevertheless, so close, yet so far.
[ uh...I'm suffering writers' block, okay! ] This morning while I was skytraining to work I saw a man, solemnly sitting by the window, intently penciling away at his crossword puzzle. He caught my eye as I shuffled for standing room. Upon my first glance, the barely repressable fifteen year old from within, awoke and silently squealed, “OMG, he’s like so totally hot.” I haven’t encountered these pubescent fancies since first year university when a ‘David the naked statute’-built, athlete walked onto the 144 late one November evening. He was blonde and had wire-framed glasses. His reflection, very visibly, bounced off the slightly tinted windows. I made a concerted effort to stare at that window my entire ride, so to create the pretense of a curious onlooker with a fascination for whatever was going on outside. The ensuing drool might’ve been a giveaway though. Seriously. I think I drooled.
This skytrain man was beautiful too. So beautiful. Like, I almost want to “club you over the head, blackmail you into marriage and then drug you into consummation”, beautiful. The ride spanned about 10 minutes. In that time, I had our life together all planned -- we endured a semi-tumultuous courtship (gotta keep it real, yo), exchanged our vows before the backdrop of a setting sun, and raised a set of curly haired, fraternal twins. Good times. Good times. My stop came, which coincidentally was also his stop. He meticulously folded away his crossword and proceeded to stand up.
When he stood up, I remember thinking, "huh??" He looked funny in an upright position. Love affair over. Conspicuous, "I'm checking you out" stares ceased. My gaze returned to whatever it is I look at when I walk. It was fun while it lasted, though. As always, thanks for the good times. But more importantly, nobody's going to be drugging anyone into consummation any time soon. That's not the way God, my parents and Danny Tanner would have wanted it.
Yeah, apparently my 'writer's block' only plagues work-related writing. Ha. Go figure.
Today I stepped into the elevator and comfortably fitted myself into a corner. A 6 foot, "big-boned" man also enters, along with his lady co-worker. His sleaze bag mannerisms shouted "oooh..pretty lady, let's have an affair". Her awkward smiles and intentional lookaways clearly screamed "back off!! get your own sandwich!!" In anycase, while he was putting the moves on, he too, was suavely positioning himself into a corner -- my corner. That's right, the exact area my 5'2 petite frame occupied. As this self-important, mammoth of a human being inched towards me, I managed to slide myself out of the way. While I was Houdini'ing out of a suffocation death, he was oblivious. So I exclaimed, "come on, man!! where's your human decency buster?! I was standing right THERE."
The last part never happened because...come on now, could YOU see me asserting myself with confidence like that? Let's not be crazy.
I'm resolving to stop aimlessly pissing around at work and be the stellar superstar that I know I can sometimes be. That means absoutely NO MORE xanga entries at work.
Except for this one. But that's it!! NO MORE!!
OMG...Dashboard kicked some major assage last night. Emo music that taps into pubescent-themed drama is.so.awesome.