Wednesday, April 14

Go week, go.

It's done.  The offer letter has been signed, sealed and returned.  In one month, Grouchy becomes the intrepid reporter. Till then, she's so jobless, she is painting her nails a new colour everyday.

Yeah,  I know. If I'm going to continue writing these one liners, I should just maybe convert to Twitter or something.  But here's the thing - I don't know what to say.  

Okay, so yes, I got the job. But it sucks. Because I'm not proud or particularly even happy about it, you know? How can you be, when your best friends and roomies and classmates are still without jobs? No one seems to remember that it's still early days yet and they'll all be placed eventually! So, for now, we are still the enemy.

I get the antagonism. I do.  I didn't even try for the job. F***, I didn't even want it. I took it because it was  handed to me on a platter. Maybe that's what makes it so much worse, that it was so easy for me and that I didn't even care enough either way, when so many more who genuinely wanted, cared and worked it, didn't get it. 

J is a boiling cauldron now. Every few hours, tests are written, names called, interviews given. Then the lists come and faces fall.  For every fifteen happy ones, there are a hundred and fifty disappointed ones.  Amongst these, we walk.  Apologetically, sheepishly and carefully.  Not knowing what we can say that will not sound  offensive, piteous or condescending.  

Two days and I already hate it.  Being on the outside looking in. I need everyone to get placed, ASAP! Then at least, friends can be friends again.  

Until then, I go underground and hide.  

Peace out. 

Tuesday, April 13

Thank you God.

Aren't you a nice God, God?  You couldn't even wait for a day, could you?  You had to show off.  The one newspaper I respect, I walk out on. The one newspaper I don't respect, I'm going to collect my offer letter from. Thanks a lot, God. You were real nice.  

Monday, April 12

A Prayer and One

The first of the placements start tomorrow.  You should see J now.  It's silent in a way it only is before D day type things-- thrumming with anxiety and excitement and blood lust.  All the cats that lived amicably hitherto are now sharpening their claws.  The writing on the wall is not hard to read-- things are going to get very ugly.

I wonder what it is with me. Maybe, I'm just anti-establishment or nihilistic or something. If people are working hard to get jobs, I'm going to try extra hard to not get one.  Why? Why?! Because I don't want to, you stupid mutt! That's why.

I have to stop going with the flow, see?  That's the only way I'll go looking for what I want.  Okay, so you don't see it. What can I say? The light will come to you too oneday, after years of practising advanced Tao/Buddhist/Zen type meditation like things. Until then, you can join my mother in planning which mental asylum I should be "committed" to.  

So listen up Dear God. I've done everything in my power to ensure that I don't get a job. I haven't read/heard/watched a single item of news in 9 months. I have diligently slept through all editing exercises. I've embraced anti-intellectualism as a religion. And I have cultivated no love for journalism.  Besides all of which, I've stored vintage smelly socks in case I do get through by some chance of fate through to an interview. 

I've done my part -- there isn't even a remote chance of me getting through any newspaper. But by sitting for the placements (as I'm being compelled to do by the order of Her Highness - Grouchy's Mother) I'm opening a tiny little window of fate. But do not be tempted to be merciful, Dear God. 

Rain jobs at J.  Though all of them act like pricey jerks who spout self righteous nonsense about ethics and politics and hogwash, they'll take anything you give.  They are desperate enough to pray on Facebook. So make them all happy. Even Lady Cat who I know will become a WMD once let out into newspaper world.  But also give what I want.  Force me onto the path of joblessness so that I will have no choice to but find my own path - which I will otherwise never venture into by myself. 

This year I'm a believer. So be nice. Okay? Okay. 

PS: And yes also see about that boy, will you please? I like. Like really like. Like really really like like.  

Saturday, April 3

Dingbat Bravado

As I do with most hypothetical questions, I've often speculated wildly about what I would do if I was ever put in a life-or-death situation. On the train, I was forced to find out. Surprising even myself, I didn't crumble. In fact, it seems that I'm capable of being completely sangfroid and that I have the presence of mind -- the kind I didn't even know I had -- to think up a P.O.A and execute it to successfully enough to extract myself from a sordid mess. 

But I did! 

And then, after it was all over, I cried. Uncontrollably. Like something really terrible did happen. And then, I escalated the patheticness to a whole new level. I called Blue Shirt and cried some more. I don't even know why I called him. I was horrible. I sobbed and sniffed and snivelled.  I don't think I cried like that even when Goofy died.  It's a natural reaction, everyone tells me. Sheesh! Still, am I a sissy or what?  Meh. But the important thing is that all is well that end's well, n'est ce pas?

Aside: (to a girl) Never call a guy when you want comfort. He will try to "help" by either offering you advice (which is really, the most obvious things you can do in the said you're incapable of already having thought of it yourself) or try to diffuse the situation by coming onto you, both of which are things you do NOT need at the moment. Call your best friend instead. If you can't get through, try again. And again. At the least, she will say the right things and let you cry in peace, which is all you really wanted anyway. 

Okay, I'm just being extremely mean and ungrateful here. Grouses aside, I would have completely lost it if it hadn't been for the calm reassuring voice of reason that Blue Shirt was. He always makes me feel silly and overtly sentimental every time I say anything remotely personal. It usually riles me enough to forget my misery and clam up. This time too it worked like a charm. The waterworks stopped instantly.  So quite some credit to him, I think.  

I know, I know. It sounds much too much like one of our chronicles, but rest assured it's not. As cited on the list, I'm way past that port.  

So, am I ever going to cut the crap and get to the point, explain what the life-or-death was. Trust me, I'm trying. Every time I start, I find myself unwilling to continue. It's been three days since it happened. I still can't sleep. I have nightmares when I try to. So, I walk around making light of it, acting like I'm fine, that nothing's amiss. Because ultimately nothing did happen, right? Right. 

However, now, another hypothetical question -- What if it had?