06 November 2007
November 6
A couple of weeks back I managed the impossible and attempted to clean my room. It’s also bit of a mystery since I remember being in the mood to wipe and sweep and dust and move—immediately after waking up. Could’ve been a good exhibit material for Ripley’s anniversary this week… Two boxes of “to keep for another five years” and five plastic bags of “what the—I still have this from pre-school?!” later, I was done and ready to scrape dirt off my hair and limbs.
It was truly memorable: the heat, the “excitement”, the heat, the usefulness notion, the heat, the patriotism, the heat… But the highlight of it all was when I unearthed folder Number 31 and found a letter. A LOVE LETTER. Suddenly it was early Halloween…
After much thought I resolved that I wrote the poor thing… err, I mean, love letter. The harder part was figuring out whom I sent or wrote it for. It was encoded—viva tecnologia!—and had just one mark that replaced “love” with “care” in paragraph 2 line 4. Ah, the humor. Had the plain paper not been folded-crumpled and a bit torn in the corners, the entire romantic, pathetically subtle thought would have died.
Too intrigued, I rummaged my dormant brain to know for whom the letter was in an abrupt airing of Who Actually Fooled Pao And Ran Away With It. It’s only a minute ago that I managed to cut it down to two suspects: S from high school and G from 2005. Tic-tac, tic-tac… I think it was for G, although I’m wishing my guts out that I didn’t actually send the thing. I’m even tempted to tag some of the letter’s lines here, but I’ve had enough shame as a 24-year-old and I still have a day job to do.
Which brings me to my real point with this piece: To try and congratulate myself for reaching one year in a second legal job.
One year, and I’m still here. Yay me.
One year, and surprisingly I’m still having fun. At least with five out of thirty-three officemates.
One year, and it seems like forever. And that’s not poetry. It’s all and’s, no but’s, see?
But yeah, I’m happy I reached this point. It’s been part of my plans since my job interview with the very nice HR representative 397 days ago. I’m happy that I have a new entry in my resumé and my Friendster and Facebook lists are 30+ names longer. I’m happy that I got to do my own thing away from home. Happy that I wanted a new phone and managed to get it in a new record time. Happy that I got to run a pseudo-managerial post—felt natural, and very timely. Of course there were bumps on the road, but at least nothing worse than Britney “She’s Back, Bitch” Spears’s recent adventures.
I look back to 2005 and try to figure out G’s M.O. in tricking me. Just to know. No angry spirits hungry for revenge or anything. Honest curiosity. I kept the battered paper in my bedroom—if that pushes the point.
Well, maybe some short, brittle string: I want to know because I might get tips on how I snapped out of that trance. It’ll be a huge help, especially now that another Deal looms in the horizon. My most precious routine next to commuting and shampooing hangs in the balance:
And all I have now is a countdown to the 502nd leap year “A.D.”
It was truly memorable: the heat, the “excitement”, the heat, the usefulness notion, the heat, the patriotism, the heat… But the highlight of it all was when I unearthed folder Number 31 and found a letter. A LOVE LETTER. Suddenly it was early Halloween…
After much thought I resolved that I wrote the poor thing… err, I mean, love letter. The harder part was figuring out whom I sent or wrote it for. It was encoded—viva tecnologia!—and had just one mark that replaced “love” with “care” in paragraph 2 line 4. Ah, the humor. Had the plain paper not been folded-crumpled and a bit torn in the corners, the entire romantic, pathetically subtle thought would have died.
Too intrigued, I rummaged my dormant brain to know for whom the letter was in an abrupt airing of Who Actually Fooled Pao And Ran Away With It. It’s only a minute ago that I managed to cut it down to two suspects: S from high school and G from 2005. Tic-tac, tic-tac… I think it was for G, although I’m wishing my guts out that I didn’t actually send the thing. I’m even tempted to tag some of the letter’s lines here, but I’ve had enough shame as a 24-year-old and I still have a day job to do.
Which brings me to my real point with this piece: To try and congratulate myself for reaching one year in a second legal job.
One year, and I’m still here. Yay me.
One year, and surprisingly I’m still having fun. At least with five out of thirty-three officemates.
One year, and it seems like forever. And that’s not poetry. It’s all and’s, no but’s, see?
But yeah, I’m happy I reached this point. It’s been part of my plans since my job interview with the very nice HR representative 397 days ago. I’m happy that I have a new entry in my resumé and my Friendster and Facebook lists are 30+ names longer. I’m happy that I got to do my own thing away from home. Happy that I wanted a new phone and managed to get it in a new record time. Happy that I got to run a pseudo-managerial post—felt natural, and very timely. Of course there were bumps on the road, but at least nothing worse than Britney “She’s Back, Bitch” Spears’s recent adventures.
I look back to 2005 and try to figure out G’s M.O. in tricking me. Just to know. No angry spirits hungry for revenge or anything. Honest curiosity. I kept the battered paper in my bedroom—if that pushes the point.
Well, maybe some short, brittle string: I want to know because I might get tips on how I snapped out of that trance. It’ll be a huge help, especially now that another Deal looms in the horizon. My most precious routine next to commuting and shampooing hangs in the balance:
And all I have now is a countdown to the 502nd leap year “A.D.”
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