Saccharine Irony

This site is a compilation of fluid thoughts, a collection of poetry, random glimpses of humor and tragedy, spontaneous notions of an extremely sensitive mind.

Bushed! August 13, 2009

Filed under: Career Chronicles,confessions — Aimee @ 3:14 am
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HOLD-0444I am tired of writing.

Don’t get me wrong, I will forever love writing and I still dream of writing that novel someday. My love for words, pen and paper, PCs and keyboards, books and printed ink, bookstores and libraries is something that will forever be etched in me.

It’ s just that after making a decent living out of researching and writing, I suddenly feel the urgent need to explore something else. I want a job that can take me places, one that allows me to speak to people, or to market a product that I passionately believe in.

I remember enjoying the marketing subjects I took up in college immensely. Brainstorming for hours, racking my brains for the right advertising spiel, shooting a print commercial, and recording a radio advertising jingle had been pure euphoria. The results were phenomenal, and our professor, Mr. Lluch had been pretty impressed to say the least.

I still want to write, but I don’t want to do it for other people, all the time. Perhaps I am looking for some semblance of creative freedom, and not just in putting words to paper. I want to be a part of a team, to come up with creative ideas, and later on to write about them and to bring them to actual life. I want to market a valuable product, a belief, a policy, a lifestyle, one that I actually believe in and not one which others impose upon me.

I could be looking at a profession in the advertising industry, a marketing position at some decent company, or an entrepreneurial passion put to good use.

Whatever it is, one thing remains clear. I don’t want to stop at just writing.

 

Trapped. Squeezed. Swallowed. December 10, 2008

Filed under: Career Chronicles,Sarcasm — Aimee @ 9:58 am
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The workplace, no doubt, is an interesting place for people watching. People are trapped more than eight hours everyday inside freezing, dull-colored buildings: facing computers, flipping papers, mollifying clients, chewing at ball pen caps, sipping instant coffee, and spending the rest of the time wishing they were somewhere else.

You see them in stiff blazers and glossy neckties, scurrying around, trying to look as if they are actually busy with something. The fact that they are pretending to be busy somehow gives them the assurance that they are doing something worthwhile with their routine lives.

And maybe they really do have hectic days, no argument with that, but at the end of each day, they would begin to wonder if the careers they had chosen had put them where they have always wanted to be, if perchance the endless tapping on keyboards or the ingestion of brainless policies define who they are.

Then you see the arthritic supervisors, those fifty-something superiors who stay rooted to their posts merely because of that beautiful thing called “security of tenure”, which most government-funded agencies take to heart quite liberally, and so that they are able to retain their plush swivel chairs, those soft back cushions, the huge tables that hold nothing but family picture frames, plastic flowers, and useless what-nots.

The females paint their faces in an effort to obscure wrinkle lines, perm and color their hair in a vain effort to regain its fading luster, and embellish themselves with heavy glittering accessories – gold, shiny jades and rubies, oversized pearls in hundreds of colors- perhaps to remind everyone that these jewels are their trophies, trophies for toiling inside freezing, dull-colored buildings in a span of long decades. The males have protruding bellies, brassy voices, sly gazes, and huge groping hands; and if you’re careless, they could read way too much between your quick glances and contrived laughter.

These middle-aged folks have earned their respective positions no doubt, but some of them no longer make any contribution to the organization at all. Most hours they just absentmindedly sift through papers, verify checks and tinker with their high-end cell phones, wondering whether the husband is not with some mistress, or the if the wife is not flirting with the boss. And the worst of their kind never grow up at all. At their age, they still gossip like thoughtless adolescents, feign friendships even as they kiss each other’s cheeks, and nurture their little prejudices like confused toddlers. The workplace compels them to fake smiles and get crafty with small talk, to fashion handy compliments and throw them to the air whenever the need arises.

These bosses give out orders like automatons, get panic attacks at the slightest blunders, seek perfection where there is none, and all the while not fully understand the gamut of their jobs. The madames come to the office because they need to, because they have huge credit card debts to pay off, new car accessories to purchase and not necessarily because their perfume-laden presences are still needed.

The workplace is their, home, a stretch of land subdivided into their own little countries where they rule as royalties. And beneath them, their minions toil over their mindless employments – tap away at computers, flip over papers, mollify clients, chew at ball pen caps, sip instant coffee and wish they were somewhere else.

Well, the simple-minded ones are happy where they are, content with everyday work because there are mouths to feed, and because unfortunately, they know nothing better. They have spouses to come home to, and children to tell stories to, so what is the point of yearning for a better profession? Their thoughts are flying in all directions as they work at their tables, wishing they were home because if truth be told, there is nothing like home in a pretentious, dull-colored building.

Millions of hearts are trapped in places they cannot love, but only be immune to. They have grown gnarly and old, and they cannot fuel their souls to dream of something else. They just sit and watch, at the budding ones in stiff blazers and glossy neckties, lip gloss and stilettos, wanting to tell them to go and follow their heart songs. Wanting to tell them that yes, the workplace is interesting.

But the wide open skies are breathtaking.

 

Seven Holidays per Week January 15, 2008

Filed under: Career Chronicles,Mall Trips — Aimee @ 7:57 am
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Today I went to the bank to claim my cyber account card. Finally I got it, which means there’s definitely no way I’m not gonna get paid for all my written works. Then I went to the mall for my grocery shopping. The good thing about not having a structured job is that you can make everyday a weekend or a holiday. For the first time, I actually enjoyed grocery shopping. Today is a working day so the supermarkets were somewhat deserted. Browsing through the aisles was like being in a peaceful library. There were no annoying shoppers who would bump you with their heavy carts. No obnoxiously loud couples who would argue like they were just inside their bedrooms. No horribly long counter queues, no aisle traffics, no toddlers who would suddenly scream because their mommies won’t buy them those extra soft chocolate chip cookies. Believe it or not, I went through every aisle, checking out the items even though I would not actually buy all of them. It was like having a huge pantry all to myself. Ah, the beauty of solitude amidst such pleasures.

Indeed, having an office desk and a blinking computer inside gray walls is a very dangerous way to view the world. A two- day weekend is definitely never enough, I should know it, because I’ve been there and back. And the early Monday morning rush is not something to look forward to. It’s true, making a living does not run in parallel with having a life. But for most of us idiots who know nothing else, making a living is the closest we’ll ever gonna get to having a life. Again, little wonder why there are so many unhappy souls in this world.

Let’s hope I’m not speaking too soon here. Because somehow, the idiots are the people I love, and genuinely care for my future whether I want them to or not. Who knows, maybe I’m an idiot underneath- having a structured job, short weekends, annoying bosses, well-connected officemates all equates to a perfect life. Maybe, ten years from now, I’ll look back and remember the idealistically foolish and headstrong girl who wasn’t strong enough to find, and to fight for her rightful place in the world. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll wither and grow wrinkles after spending a youthful life inside gray, air-conditioned walls, faking smiles to people I’d rather give a piece of my mind to. Because in this country and age, idealism does not always work. It may work, but not without tear and mucus stained tissues, frustration after frustration, and people thinking you’ve gone entirely mad.

Why can’t every day be a holiday? Because if truth be told, people deserve all the holidays they can get. I know I deserve it, so I’m enjoying it while it lasts. I’ll start my new year by treating myself to seven holidays per grueling week. 🙂

 

Cupcake Afternoon January 9, 2008

Filed under: Events — Aimee @ 9:46 am
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images1.jpg Today was a warm day with friends. Ella and Mae came over at the house to bake cupcakes with me. I don’t know why I have this sudden fixation with cupcakes. Perhaps because of the fact that they’re easy to make and easy to consume. And putting the icing is just like playing with colored clay, only that there’s no teacher telling you how you’re not doing the right thing. We made just the basic variety so as to leave more room for us to experiment with frostings and toppings. Next week I’ll probably head to the supermarket for my baking experiment on chocolate cherry glaze cupcakes. They’re a bit on the expensive side I know, but no one’s gonna buy any of the ingredients for me, anyway. Plus I get to leave the house for a while, which is a good thing because I oftentimes catch myself talking to the computer out of sheer solitude. Creepy.

Len arrived much later, when the cupcakes were already set and pretty on the serving plate. Much to our flattery she didn’t believe how we could make such a lovely batch, thinking that we merely ordered the cupcakes for that afternoon’s rendezvous.

We chatted, ate, laughed, and conversed a bit about the absurdities of the world. We gave Ella our preliminary goodbyes, who’s leaving for Cebu on Friday. Brave, brave girl. But Nashy will be there and whatever the case may be, she’s bound to have the time of her life. Hopefully, she’d find her heart song across the seas.

When she comes back we’ll frost many more cupcakes, and laugh like she never left at all. In the meanwhile I’ll write, bake, and go out with girlfriends as much as I can. Sometimes I get the funny feeling that this paradise isn’t going to last much longer and that pretty soon I’ll be enticed to accept an eight-to-five-job because it’s the road more traveled by ordinary folks like myself. Why does work and happiness have to be at opposite ends of the pole? Guess I’m just talking about me.

If truth be told, I can bake cupcakes all my life, if my writing suffocates me. Anything but a predictable existence inside gray walls and half-brained asses. Anything but boredom, structure, and nausea. Hope I don’t need a golden compass to get to where I want to be.

But believe me on the cupcakes. They were a thing of beauty.

 

The Reign of the Earth Rat January 2, 2008

Filed under: Career Chronicles,Events — Aimee @ 3:55 am
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There is just one resolution I’m gonna be keeping this year. That is, to stop believing in resolutions for once. This year I’m not gonna be expecting anything, but I’ll be keeping the conviction that I deserve all the good things my heart desires. This year, I’ll do away with plans, expectations, fears, and all the useless baggage. This year, I’m allowing myself to be a nomad, a drifter, camper, impulse traveler, writer, and all the things I have deprived myself of in the past. I’ll devour a bar of chocolate in one sitting if I want to. I’ll head out to the beach on a working night on pure instinct. I’ll watch all the flicks I want, read all the books on my shelf, have ice cream by myself at the mall, have a tequila night with crazy girlfriends. This year will be for the fulfillment of all my hedonistic desires, and no one’s gonna step a foot and chastise me for it.

All this time, I thought that if I slaved for work, I’d be rewarded like I ought to. I left my home, friends, dating life, the bookstore, the malls, everything without a second thought. And in the end, I found myself sniffing at tissues, wearing ugly eye bags, and a million times more unhappy. So much for being a slave.

So this year will be my year of redemption. I’ll get a real job when I’m tired of being a drifter. Or when an expensive hand bag suddenly makes me want to have a decent paycheck. I’d probably read more into what the stars are actually telling me. Maybe the answers are just right under my nose. Or maybe the answers are hidden far far away, across a stretch of ocean, somewhere I had never thought of exploring.

Until then, I’ll be celebrating my freedom, looking forward to a year with no framework and no intricate guide maps. And perhaps, this may just be the grandest year yet. 🙂

 

The Art and Science of Words December 19, 2007

Filed under: Career Chronicles — Aimee @ 10:55 am
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images2.jpg For the past five days I have written 8, 850 words in sixteen articles, gulped down not more than two steaming mugs of bitter coffee per grueling day, slept not more than five hours straight each night, ignored one night-out with girlfriends and two movie plus dinner dates, had one episode of blinding migraine attack, and a continuing dry cough affliction. There is more to putting words on paper than I had ever supposed, and for someone who claims to love writing unconditionally, I am apalled at the way my body reactions and daily schedules have spun out of control. Writing for leisure is one thing, writing and researching as an assignment on tight deadlines is another. The assignments always come in droves, at least three, and numbering until well into twenty per a two to three-day period.

Now, the only thing I think of after waking up each morning is neither my breakfast nor my day wardrobe, but the articles I need to write. More so, how to write them so as to maintain originality and freshness inspite of the burgeoning numbers. Indeed, putting words into paper is much a science as it is an art. There has to be a nifty strategy at hand, so nifty as to keep creative juices from running out. Ever a creature of diversion, it is challenging enough for me to ignore other sites that excite me, and to concentrate on the ones that deal with my assignment. Ringing telephones and books getting impatient to be read holler their way to my subliminal core. But there is no other way than to ignore them, and ignore them I must, even if I get runny nosebleed in the process.

I love what I now do, of that I am certain. In fact, I would never love the idea of work, except when I’m whipping up dishes, playing with watercolor, or writing. But there is no denying I am tired.

And happy.

I think I know now what divine exhaustion means. 🙂

 

Paralysis September 14, 2007

Filed under: Saccharine thoughts — Aimee @ 6:19 pm
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A fairly normal Friday; decided to travel home the following morning

Too much work can be paralyzing. Especially when you’re stuck with work you’re not really too passionate about. But then again, it’s not just work that can send you into a subjective paralysis — anything that you are not too passionate about, but that which you are unfortunately stuck with, is asphyxiating. A relationship you’re not too crazy about, a home you can’t even call a home, a spouse you can no longer connect with, a job that does not inspire you — all these can drag anyone down to the dregs of desolation. I can now imagine why there are too many unhappy people in this world. And it all started with the fact that most, if not all of them, made the wrong choices in the beginning.

A new graduate chooses the first job offered him thinking that he made a noteworthy decision, and sticks by it for years and years to come, duped into the notion that a highly secure, stable job is always enough. A girl gets courted by an affluent egomaniac, and eventually marries him, believing that love is merely found in books but never between two people, or worse believing that the egomaniac she married would actually change. A spoiled rotten child follows the dictates of his parents blindly, never knowing how to subsist without the comforts of home, even at the ripe age of forty plus years. Or the proud career woman who keeps on searching for the perfect man, that perfect mate she has so consciously fashioned in her subconscious, foolishly thinking that it does and can exist.

It’s just amazing how one choice can alter lives so drastically, and how the unwillingness of making one can stifle the very nature of what our lives are supposed to be: free, spontaneous, independent and impassioned; flawed and unpolished in some areas, but sublime all the same.