responsibility is a buzzkill

According to an online article published late last year, the average time an employee stays at a job is 4.4 years. I do not know if this holds true for the local setting but for the sake of this discussion, I will assume it is.

I have been a part of the workforce for years now and in that period I have had five jobs. On average, my tenure lasts for a little more than 1.5 years; only my current job broke past it and I want to attribute the longevity to a certain satisfaction that I get from select colleagues, my quasi-flexible work schedule which allows me the time to pursue graduate studies, and most importantly, the gym membership. I just cannot imagine forgoing such lifestyle.

Yesterday morning however, while taking a post-workout shower, I thought I finally came up with a decision. If it would mean that I will no longer feel the need to job hop, if it would bring back my competitive nature, if it would enliven my fading creative spark, if it would give me the sense of fulfillment I have been yearning for, then I should go and pursue what I love. In my head are vignettes of how demanding and dynamic my new career will be, the fresh faces and inspiring personalities I will be surrounding myself with, and the endless opportunities that I seemingly cannot afford to miss.

All these, of course, would entail major sacrifices. I conditioned myself that I will most likely start from scratch and receive a hefty pay cut; more than that, I will also have to bear whatever irrational disappointment,

frustration

and perhaps, anger

that my parents will throw my way.

Slowly and ever so gently, I let the warm water wash away the fuzzy feeling, the fleeting confidence I just mustered, and all the future perfect pictures I painted.

Their reality chains me to the ground so I think of lofty dreams instead. It keeps me sane. Sometimes, though, I wonder if there will ever be a time when I can actually be set free to create one that I can call my own.

when hope bleeds

Most of the time the universe throws barely noticeable hints at us; directions, or signs as one would commonly say, that might influence us how to steer our lives. Other times, it can be less subtle: "Rachel, if you keep looking for that happy ending then you are NEVER gonna get it right!" The message is so conspicuous, I'll be damned if I won't heed.

This is perhaps one of the reasons why I wasn't cheering with a great number of people when the second boy-on-boy kiss happened on Glee. It was nice but I just wasn't feeling it. Firstly, it was long overdue; and secondly, I read a spoiler about it. So instead of going gaga over Klaine, I found myself shaking and crying for Rachel Berry's scenes - the heartbreaking dialogue with Quinn, the spot-on-as-always performance of Get It Right, and the closing speech. (Can I just say that Lea Michele is so talented? I should know, I'm talented too.) All at once, I remember why I primarily associated myself with her character. More than the gold star metaphor, more than the argyle sweater, more than the passion, more than being slushied, more than being a loser in my own way, I am a Rachel Berry because in spite of all the things that I have and the deeds that I have accomplished, I feel like I'm the boy who never gets the brass ring; the boy whose good is never good enough.

I am fortunate enough to be surrounded and loved by the best kind of people, but sometimes I wonder if it will ever be enough. Maybe if I stopped trying then I won't have to count how much longer it will take.

on eng501m

Truthfully, I have come to love my English class. I almost considered not pursuing my graduate studies when I found out that I was required to take the subject. I was crushed. The idea that I need to take a refresher is so retarded. It was so embarrassing. I talked to a couple of people and their rationale behind the misfortune knocked a bit of sense to me. More importantly, I was reminded that the ultimate purpose in seeking higher education is far more important than pride:

"Class, why are you taking your Master's degree," our Marketing Statistics professor asked. "Is it not because you want better and higher-paying jobs?"

"Para magka-love life," the class chorused, or at least my group did.

We are a crazy bunch. The adjective loud, in its non-flamboyant context, would best fit us. One time, I made a remark about the room being a bit warm. "Why is it so hot in here?" I asked.

"Because hot people like us have congregated inside," Pakak answered. "Gusto mo yun?"

However, I have a different set of classmates in English. I came in early on the first day of the term. I anticipated the fresh, young and hopefully, awe-inspiring faces that I will be spending fourteen meetings with. Imagine my dismay, and I will have to stop because I do not want to be mean. Saying that none of them are visually appealing or at the very least, fun, regardless if one is just being honest, is still rude.

I shared the sentiment to my friend and he said, "It's like you're in..."

"Limbo. I know," I said. "It's stressful. I'm so pressured to make sure that I get top grades just to prove to myself that I don't belong there."

While it takes me an hour or two to come up with a draft of a blog entry, the professor gives us 15 minutes to whip out an academic essay. Last week, she asked us to do a contrastive definition of fission and fusion. It was a bit challenging but it was fun. I got a 4.0, and another note to improve my penmanship. I should keep that in mind in case the world decides to go back to producing handwritten publications.

This is the upside. I get a chance to go back and re-learn the basics of writing. It is quite helpful because in my opinion, in the world that matters, grammar is still king.

I have never been this focused in class since high school and it is probably because of the general shortage in worthwhile distractions. So much for the ultimate purpose. It is saddening but I figured I would prefer someone who is rather eloquent anyway. I am kidding, of course.