Putting the Ass in Assertiveness

So before I was sidetracked by the rude commenter I mentioned in the previous post, I was actually gearing up to let you all know that yes, I have improved.

Physically I appear exactly as I did this morning, but don’t let your stupidity fool you.

This is the new me.

The new and improved me, to be specific.

I joined a workshop on Assertive Communication, and man has it turned my life around.

Behold, the new and assertive Miss Choi!

I have to say it wasn’t as painful as I’d feared it would be.  We did have a short getting-to-know-you bit, where we all had to share something unique about us.  I briefly considered suicide after hearing the other participants’ life tidbits.  Consider:

• I improved my life by joining the Speech Club and winning a declamation contest. Hooray!
• I find public speaking difficult.
• I nearly died of drowning when I was seven. (Way to go existential there, Michelle.)

Maybe I should have gone with the classic “I sold my soul to the devil for a can of beer when I was eight” just to shake things up.  But I didn’t.

Instead I wrote, “I was a fan of Kenneth Peralta in the late 80s”.

So lame it could have competed in the Special Olympics and won.

The workshop itself was actually useful, though, and I think I learned something helpful.  Here’s how it works: when attacked, simply repel it by reverting the force back to the opponent.

Sort of like Tai Chi Boxing, but less exhausting.

If I apply my newly learned assertiveness on the situation with my latest hater, it would go something like this:

Hater: Miss Choi is a bitch.

Miss Choi: Interesting. In what ways would you say I have acted bitch-like?

See what I did back there?  Totally fucked up the dude’s mind is what I did.  If I thrown in a polite little “fuck you” in there, the thing will be so assertive you won’t even have a mind left for me to blow.

But to be honest, I think it’s really done something to me.

This morning, before this all started, I was just a bitch.

Now, I’m an assertive bitch.

That’s got to count for something.

Awaken

Around a year ago, if I remember correctly, our team moved to the 19th floor of the building and I started having weird dreams.

It’s not the having weird dreams part that’s weird.  People get weird dreams all the time.  It’s just that these dreams weren’t exactly dreams.  I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find a man seated at the foot of my bed, chatting with me.  I would always be somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, and he would be there, just talking.

I don’t remember anything he said in the roughly five consecutive nights that he was there.

What I do know is that after listening to him babble for several excruciating minutes, I would finally realize that it wasn’t normal to have a conversation with someone — anyone — non-corporeal in the middle of the night.  Fear would set in, and I would wake up for real.  Scared out of my wits but unable to comprehend things, I would then sneak into my parents’ bedroom and sleep beside my mom till morning.

On the sixth day, my mom got sick of my antics and asked me what the deal was.  I told her of the dreams.  Cursing slightly under her breath, she took a pinch of rock salt from the kitchen cupboard and rubbed it vigorously on my scalp, right on the top of my head.

Then there it was.  Clarity.

I didn’t even realize that everything was completely off in the five days that had gone by.  I was going through my usual home-office-home routine and everything was practically normal save for the nightly gabfests.  I was fine, as far as I was concerned.

After my mom’s little ritual, I could think straight again, and everything just seemed clearer and more colorful and more alive.  More importantly, the dreams were gone.

What’s weird is that I didn’t even notice this bleakness in the days past.  I thought everything was normal, until my mom got rid of whatever it was that had taken hold of me and I somehow … woke up.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly how I feel right now.  I’m sorry I had to go through such a long-winded introduction, but that’s the only thing that approximates my present mindframe.  The entire past year, I had been plodding along without actually moving a brain cell.  I was just going through the motions and I didn’t even realize that until last Friday.

The major screw-up I mentioned in a post last week was work-related, and it was just what I needed to realize how far I’d fallen down the motivation well.  Corporate zombie would be a very apt description.  Anyway, realizing how fucked up my performance had been pretty much woke me.

And then there it was.  Clarity.

Snap Back to Reality

First fuck-up of the year and it’s not even halfway through January.

Welcome back.

Memo

Dear Me,

Get your head in the fucking game!

Hugs and Kisses,

Me

Silid Kapkapan

How exactly do you translate the words “search room” into Filipino?

By “search room” I mean the room where you conduct body searches.  I am afraid I cannot continue explaining as this would only lead to more confusion and sexual mistranslation.  Suffice it to say that the documents I’m translating have to do with Customs and the people they arrest.

I was sorely tempted to write “silid kapkapan” but logic prevailed and I went with the English words.  Technically I’m supposed to translate from Traditional Chinese to Filipino, but when words (or the translator’s brain) fails it’s pretty much necessary to just go with the English version.  After all, English is this country’s national language, too, right?

It’s a lame excuse, but if the people paying me don’t complain I don’t think I’ll be losing sleep over it.

I have this theory that watching Chinese/Taiwanese/HK telenovelas brings me more translation projects.  I can’t explain it really, but around the time I started watching It Started with a Kiss, I clinched by most lucrative translation job.  Same thing happened when I watched They Kiss Again.  Now I’m watching that tearjerker of a soap, Family, and I got this job.

Coincidence?

I don’t think so.  Luck, maybe, or some sort of cosmic alignment.

Either way it’s fine by me.

The only problem is whether or not I can handle this lifestyle.  I’ve been having episodes of random vertigo-ish dizziness these past few days.  Someone told me it might be irreversible brain damage, but that’s impossible.  My brain is damaged enough as it is; it can’t get any worse than that.

I just hope to survive this very, very busy weekend.

Short-Lived

So yes, I’ve been played for a fool again.

Victory has been short-lived.

But I’ll still go through with it, since I am pretty much addicted to money.

Before you start letting those thoughts run wild, let me just say that I’m in a middle of a negotiation gone awry.

The initial rate discussed has been hacked and slashed to something barely acceptable.  Still I’m going through with it, because this is still money we’re talking about.  And even though I won’t be staring at 100,000 bucks any time soon (which would’ve been the going rate if we pushed through with the original agreement), I’m still going through with this new sideline of mine.

I need the dough, obviously, and it would be crazy to say no.

Let’s see where this goes.

Helter Skelter State of Mind

I’m not very productive these days.

I’m always late for work, I can’t wake up to my alarm clock and I just want to stay home the entire day. Or week. Or month, maybe.

It’s not that I don’t want to work. Okay, so it’s not exactly like I love going to work, but at the very least it’s not something I dread, like going to the dentist or getting my driver’s license renewed. I want to work. I want to be there on time and be a useful employee. So much for good intentions, though. I often get to the office by as much as an hour or more late.

Yes, I’m a horrible employee.

I can’t even force myself to write my freelance projects. It’s like there’s no strength left in me.

Maybe it’s because I was sick for almost a month past, what with the bout with ulcer and whatnot. Up to this day I can’t finish a MacDonald’s chicken burger on my own, and that sucks big time.

Or maybe I’m just not being me. Or tired of being me.

What I’ve realized lately is that I need more time to play Nogs, my beautiful guitar. I just cleaned him with Pledge (partly because the dust is making my allergies act up) and he’s now shining like brand new. I just think I need more time to be a bum.

I miss waking up at ten and lounging around the house in clothes I had slept in the night before.

I know it sounds stupid, but there are days when I just want to run off somewhere with Nogs and do something unexpected. I’m the most unimaginative person ever; people know I hate disruptions to my schedule and pattern.

Classic Type A + obsessive-compulsive personality + god syndrome = ME.

There’s no explanation for this, but today I just want to take the first flight to Easter Island and hide. I don’t know why. Maybe part of me is sick of this. Sick of being a responsible person.

It’s only when I play the guitar that I get a feeling of relaxation and freedom. I suck horribly, but when my fingers touch the strings, I just feel like there’s nothing left to worry about but getting to the next chord in time without losing the strum pattern. Everything else just vanishes into thin air.

I’m not making sense, but I don’t really care.

All I want to do is hole up in some foreign country, forget me and everything else, then play my guitar.

Since I make no sense, I’ll just leave you with this clip of Pepe Smith going nuts. Pardon the poor quality; all I had was my phone

Tagumpaaaaaay!

Think of that Rivermaya song, “Alab ng Puso”, then go back to the title of this post.

That’s exactly how I feel.

There will be no references to Pacquiao and his win here. I don’t see myself as someone who knocked out an enemy. In fact, I feel a bit bad because I know the translated document I submitted isn’t as good as my previous ones.

After several bouts with a couple of illnesses and a bum tooth, I finally got it done.

I’m glad, of course, because this means I’m free to do stuff again.

Translation takes a lot out of me. I’m not exactly the best, but I somehow landed this gig and there’s no way anyone can try to steal this from me. It pays more than double the amount I earn from other writing gigs, so no, I’m not giving up.

I’ve killed thousands of brain cells in the process, but I keep at it.

Money’s a very good motivator.

And now, for some decent sleep.

Iodized Salt, Mag Iodized Salt Tayo

Back in college, we used to hang out a lot at this place called Coffee Indulgence, which was sort of USTe’s answer to Starbucks. But it wasn’t exactly Starbucks material; it had no air conditioning, had wooden chairs (or tree stumps) and cheap drinks.

Anyway.

One time, there was this one group over in the corner that just started singing for no reason. Sounds like that retard LA Lopez, I said quite loudly, not realizing that it was LA Lopez, the retard.

Which isn’t the point of this post. I just sort of remembered Mr. Lopez because he used to endorse iodized salt as the cure for Pinoy stupidity. So then. What exactly am I trying to say?

Commuting from my house to Makati each day gives me the rare opportunity to meet the worst of people. Not the best, unfortunately. I have yet to come across a hot guy on the MRT or the jeepney. What’s even more horrifying, though, is the realization that a lot of these people do need iodized salt. Not that it did a lot for LA Lopez, but what the hell. There still might be something to it.

Here’s my list of iodized salt-deprived people. The government might want to do something about them, for the good of humanity.

1. Pedestrians who cross the street the moment the stoplight turns green then shriek like little girls when vehicles hurtle towards them
2. People who ask, “what are you doing” while watching you brush your teeth/tie your shoelaces/some mundane act
3. People who make an extremely long line behind just one turnstile (in the MRT station), leaving other perfectly okay turnstiles idle (they probably don’t even realize that the other turnstiles are working; they just stand behind other people like the idiots that they are)
4. The bastard who translated Kim Chiu’s “Crazy Love” into Chinese and made her record it
5. Pinoy Dream Academy’s Laarni
6. People who vigorously stop an elevator’s doors from closing, ignore the flashing “UP” button and ask, “down?”
7. Rallyists who have no idea what they’re rallying about. They’re just there to chant slogans and clog traffic
8. People who idolize Willie Revillame
9. Gretchen Barretto (see this for proof)
10. People who think high-waist pants are fashionable. Repeat after me: Mommy pants will never ever ever be hot. Ever. It can’t even cover up your bulging puson, darling.

I’m in Love with Gossip Girl and Other Stupid Stuff

Yes, I am.

I love Blair, particularly, because of her pretty clothes and her headbands. I love how she’s bitchy and sort of clueless at the same time.

I love Serena, too, because her fashion style I can sort of relate to. I have those grungy tunic shirts and skinny jeans and boots. I love her.

I’ll go worship them now.

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Last week, I posted something about wanting to work abroad. I’m not looking for a job Nino, just in case you decide to come reading around again. I just feel like there’s nothing left here for me. I’m dejected, depressed and just sickened by all the corruption in this country. I need change.

That said, I won’t be leaving any time soon. I still have a year and a half to go to complete my masters, and I actually have a decent job here. I like this country. I just need a little time to recuperate.

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Anyone willing to buy me a Wii? I’ll love you forever, I swear.