I'm Going Back to Tumblr

Which in my mind totally goes with the music of "I'm going back to Hogwarts" from AVPM.

Unless you don't know that song, in which case, never mind.

So yeah, I've figured Tumblr might actually be sufficient, because I don't blog as much here anyway.

Bottomline: catch me here: Tumblr.

See ya.

I Hope I'm Doing the Right Thing

So last week, I got a call from someone.

It's a long story, with several phone calls, two online exams and a bunch of "yes, ma'ams" involved.

Condensed version: she's calling on behalf of DISNEY.

Yes, as in Walt Disney. The one with all the theme parks and that stupid cartoon mouse with the stupid cartoon voice.

They're looking for a QA tester who speaks Mandarin, which is pretty much the capsule form of my CV.

And I said no.

Like, seriously. That's effing Disney. 

And I said no.

Because I'd rather stay here, stick it out with my present job while I find a university that will let me teach part time. Maybe learn French. Get some kind of hobby.

So I said no.

And I know it will be difficult. And it will be tiring. And things might turn ugly. And when everything goes wrong I might look back at this moment and think, "I was so stupid".

But I'll still say no.

Because this -- what I have now -- it's the start of the life I want.

Hopefully Hopeless

So there are a lot of things going on at the moment.

Or maybe not quite, since there's nothing actually, literally "going on" and my life is still as stagnant as the Pasig River.

It's just interesting that there seems to be more than a few opportunities knocking at my door these past few days, and they're not just your run of the mill opportunities.

They're absolutely the "what did I do to deserve this, I'm a terrible person" kind of opportunities.

These are things that rarely ever happen to someone as blatantly horrible as I am.

If my life were a fairy tale, I'd be shoved into the pot of boiling water by the time "happily ever after" comes around.

Which is why I'm taking everything with a grain of salt.  Part of me thinks this is all a joke, so I'm glancing at these blasted opportunities sideways and waiting for the catch to come blindside me.

I'm not keeping my hopes up.

I think it's a little sad that I've become this cynical of good fortune, but experience tells me I'd be better off not counting the bloody chickens before they actually hatch. 

And Now I've Ended Mr. Y

I'm cheating. This is a repost of my review of "The End of Mr. Y" by Scarlett Thomas, originally posted on my Tumblr.  I've been remiss on my reading, so this is the best I can do at the moment. 

"The End of Mr. Y"

Scarlett Thomas

2006

“The End of Mr. Y” is not an easy book to read.

Not if you’re me, mainly because I suck at science stuff (I’m a history and literature geek, kids) and never could wrap my head around even the most basic details of physics, much less its quantum brother.

(SIde note: I’ve concluded that I’m shit at billiards even though I’m excellent at geometry because of my bad grasp of physics, hence the whole “force/distance/acceleration” calculation problem.)

The book tells a pretty simple story: self-destructive Ph.D. student Ariel finds a rare book by the author she’s studying in a second-hand bookstore, and reads it even though it’s supposedly cursed.

But that’s just the frame.

Inside the story is a multitude of other stories, each one incredibly real and difficult and painful.  

“The End of Mr. Y” challenges our notions of reality, consciousness, god and existence.  It’s a bit technical, thanks to the use of binary code as metaphor for reality (among other examples), and Scarlett Thomas can be quite wordy, but all in all it’s a decent and entertaining read.

I don’t know how exactly it happened, but Thomas manages to combine Poe, Sartre, Heidegger, Einstein and God into one entertaining thought experiment.

Maybe it’s because underneath all the divisions between science, literature, philosophy and religion is just man’s innate need to understand what it is to exist.  Forget the why; the very question of us living in a solar system seemingly devoid of other life forms is enough of a conundrum to last a lifetime.

What made us? What keeps us existing?

We’ve got a myriad ways of looking at it, but like “The End of Mr. Y”, there really is never enough of a satisfying answer.

Nobody Ever Made Mix Tapes for Me

So this was supposed to be some sort of review of Stephen Chbosky's Perks of Being a Wallflower (1999), but I just finished watching Freaks and Geeks last night, so this might as well be a double feature.

There are a million things I can say after finishing both, but basically I have one question in my head:

WHAT THE FUCK AM I STILL DOING HERE?

I'm stuck, waiting, living from paycheck to paycheck, still hoping that one day I'll have enough balls to go off and shape my future the way I want to rather than have to.  I haven't given up on my dreams, but I'm starting to think I'll never have the ability to fulfill them. 

It's not attractive, this whining. I know that. Clearly.

On an adolescent it's irritating but expected. In an adult, not so much.

The point, though, is that after watching the series and reading the book, my on-going sort-of depression sort of worsened. 

I've been in a funk for more than two weeks now, which is longer than most funks I've been in.  Normally I get really, horribly, unbearably angsty for two to three days, then it's done. 

Now it's like I'm still in that stupid little woe bubble and I'm moving, feeling, thinking sluggishly.  And I don't think I want to do anything about it.

Or maybe I do, it's just that I don't know what exactly I'm supposed to do.

Thing is, the series and the book got me thinking. Teenagers don't know what to with their lives. They're in a place where everything is possible and impossible at the same time.  

They get to whine about the futility of action, or the lack of choice, or the existentialist bullshit that the rest of the world has grown immune to.  It's understandable.

I'm twenty fucking seven.

What's my excuse?

You know right now I just really, really wish idealism would leave me alone. 

I don't know how others do it, turn into an automaton and just become completely unfeeling and un-hoping.  They're just okay, you know. Things are fine. Things are moving along great. Got to save up and get that house with the one-car garage. Got to get married. Got to have kids.

Grow old and die.

It's soulless, but it's ultimately a lot easier than thinking that there's got to be something better out there for me.

Maybe there is, maybe there isn't, but thinking and accepting that THIS is all that the rest of my life can ever be?

Sucks.

You Know It's Not Really a Secret Once You Publish a Book About It

So I've been bored.

Like, really bored.

The past week has been spent mostly reading Chuvaness' blog, because (a) it's seriously awesome and (b) I'm bored.

One thing that kept cropping up on her blog -- after the sosyal bags and the religious nuttering -- is this thing about "The Secret".

Supposedly, there's a book called "The Secret" that expounds on the Law of Attraction.  It simply means that if you think of something, or want something hard enough, the universe will conspire for you to get it.

Which is a load of bull, if you ask me.  I can sit here the entire day and visualize Fabio Ide coming over to lick my feet, but that's not really gonna happen is it?

Still, I'm at this point in my life wherein everything is sort of in the toilet, so I might just be desperate enough to try this Secret shit.  (Side note: will it not work if I cuss it out? Uh-oh)

So here's a list of the stuff I want, Universe.  You can be sure I'll devote a few hours of daydreaming to, ahem, visualizing.

1. To work and study while pursuing a PhD program in the School of Oriental and Asian Studies (SOAS) London.  
2. A boyfriend with sandy brown hair, at least 5'9", medium built, nice smile, good-looking, intelligent and will get me when I pepper my sentences with things like "flux capacitor", "reverse the polarity" and "I ain't stepping outta shit, all my papers' legit".
3. A house. With at least three rooms, inside a gated village that has its own pool. And a tiny garden at the back. 
4. Tons of money.  Like seriously, TONS.

If any of those things come true, I'm treating you to a massive drinking spree, Universe.  I'll drink for the both of us.  

Hello, Comrade

Pygmy
Chuck Palahniuk
2009

I actually finished reading the novel two days ago, but I was in some sort of funk (still am) and I simply didn't have the energy to open MacLovin and go online after work.  I kept sleeping. I'm always sleepy, I know, but I was sleeping earlier than usual, which was (I think) attributable to the aforementioned funk.

Anyway, enough with the personal drama.

This is my first foray into Chuck Palahniuk.  I have honestly no idea who he is, save for the "Fight Club" bit, which I did not even watch.  Yeah, I'm a caveman like that. Ooga booga.

So hey, I bought a Palahniuk book the last time I entered a bookstore.  The summary on the back cover seemed interesting, and it was kinda cheap.

Basically, the entire book is written from the point of view of "Pygmy" (technically not his name), a terrorist from some totalitarian state that has the United States of America at the top of its hitlist.  Disguised as an exchange student, Pygmy and a few other agents have infiltrated American society, designed a deadly weapon under the guise of a winning "science project", and undertook an attack that would shock the country.

Unfortunately, Pygmy falls in love. 

Ah love. That bit of rubbery rubbish that sneaks into the cogs of a perfect, totalitarian society. It *spoilers, just in case* foils the terrorist plot and Pygmy gets to stay in the land of the free, home of the brave.

Awesome.

Now then.  I think the book was a fun romp, all in all.  It's written completely in ENGRISH, which is a bitch and a half.  It's incredibly difficult to read. 

The plot itself is interesting, if not original.  Pygmy is a sympathetic character, despite the terrorism, and the constant hard on, and the sodomy.  He's intelligent, charming and somewhat endearing.

Despite that, I can't get over the smugness in Palahniuk's writing.  There's some sort of "wink wink, nudge nudge" quality to his paragraphs, particular when depicting the flaws that Americans possess.  The xenophobia, the obesity, the consumerist mentality -- these are all realistic faults, but Palahniuk seems so glib in depicting them that it all ends up insincere and completely negates whatever point he was trying to make in the first place.

Sort of like Michael Moore bludgeoning your brains with his beliefs.

I'd agree, but you're so over-the-top it seems clownish already.

This doesn't completely turn me off Palahniuk.  I think he's an interesting writer, and I suppose I'll read a few more of his books, provided the summary on the back cover is promising.