Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Baptism by fire

Since we last spoke, I have made a couple of changes to my life.

One, I got older.

Two, I got thinner. Still fat though, just smaller. And just as short.

Three, I made a career change.

Know how I was a magazine writer? Yea…..I jumped….to the news desk. And for the last 7 months ladies and gentlemen, this drama queen you have come to know and adore and worship and most definitely missed…have been covering the business end of the news spectrum.

Finance news spectrum.

Bitches, I am a legit financial journalist. And I have never even taken a damn account or even economy or even an “Intro to Finance 101” class in my entire life.


However, my white, straight up corporate business card (no longer sparkly pink one) now says:

Constant Drama
Financial Journalist

I had the most intense, batshit crazy three-longass probational months where I was thrown head first into the financial world. The first week started innocently enough. “CD, write a 50 words brief out of this press release.” “CD, we need an update of that bank’s statement. Check the database and just rewrite from there.”

Life’s pretty smooth sailing sailing when you’re a so-called financial journalist with no finance background whatsoever when all you have to do is rewrite press releases. Pretty, fucken smooth.

So yeah, the first week was…paradise.

And then it begun;

“We need someone to cover the stock exchange today. Who’s not busy? CD, you know where Bursa Malaysia is? Get your ass there.”

“CD, I want the exclusive with Bank A’s CEO. By 4pm today. Get it done.”

“CD, what was the financing structure of that syndicated deal? What was the loophole? No loophole? Bullshit. Find it.”

“Eurozone. Interbank money markets. 1000 words. 9am, my desk…..Why are you still standing there gawking at me?”

To say that it was rough, was an understatement of epic propositions. The intense deadlines, the yelling, the running all over the place, the whole harrasing CEOs for interviews, chasing economists for comments and all the while learning about finance as you go was just fucken batshit insane man.

The first month, I spent 6 lunchtimes crying in the restroom. How utterly pathetic. But it happened. And I’m not ashamed that it did. It was that bad. It was that intense. It was that stressful that I was up at night just hanging out at the stock exchange page just so I’m updated and won’t be caught surprise on Monday on whatever the fuck crashed over the weekend.

It didn’t helped that the copy editor was a complete beast. Up to three rewrites on most of my pieces, looking over her glasses and asking “And…you have a degree in journalism?”  in a spiteful condescending way.

It was bad. I thought of quitting a couple of times. But I didn’t. Just kept going. Just kept learning. Just kept doing the rewrites. Then, it was three months. Was confirmed, got a raise and suddenly…things were rosy. 

Apparently, baptism by fire is the way they do it here. And as it turns out, that’s just the way a newsroom, a proper newsroom work. It is a fucking warzone everyday and if you can’t fucking take it then you can pack up your shit and leave.

There’s still yelling now and there’s still a shitload I don’t understand but these days instead of being completely blindsided by the finance world…I actually know what the fuck I’m talking about. Sort of.

Well, it has only been seven months. And I haven’t cried in six. So…it’s good. I'm good. Good enough to have left over time to be back to blogging again.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012


I remember how you were once.

I remember when you first came back bout five years ago. I remember you all fiery and angry. Upset with the opression, pained by the subjugation, angered by the truth.

I remember you walking tall, talking loud and standing firm in what you believed in. I remember your arrogance, your temper, your strength.

I remember it well.

Today you stood in front of me. Dejected, humbled and beaten. The world have chewed you up and spit you out.

Your life is passing before you, the years have turn you into a man but not the one you have envisioned yourself as.

Almost three decades old and nothing to show for. You took a chance, you gambled it all and none paid off.

You're down on your luck, and you can't hide it from me.

It pains me to see you this way. It saddens me to my being.

The love I bear for you is yearning for me to reach out, to hold your hand, to make the monsters go away. But the love I bear for you also know that I should not acknowledge your pain nor your defeat for pride is in the way.

Pride is all you have now when everything has gone away, when even your looks are fleeting away.

You are not defeated for this is not the end.

I wish you could see that, could see things my way. I wish you could see that you are more than the chances you gambled away. Much more than those who betrayed you. I wish you could take the pain, the loses and turn it into your armour. The armour you wear to brave throught the shitstorm that is this life.

But most of all, I wish you could see the man I see in you. The man who one day will be somebody. The man who will fight through all this and comes out on top. The man who will wear his battle scares proudly, but quitely.

The man of quite strength others stood in awe with.

Fight, fight for another day and the day after and the day after that for it is not the end.... till death comes to claim you.

And till that time comes, know that I am here. That I am here always to catch you when you fall and to propel you back up.

Wednesday, January 04, 2012


Just a short update on the cop front:

It is over. I gave him a month, and it was just not working. Plus, he was getting irritating that in the end I thought "You know what... I much rather dying alone and be eaten by the 49 cats that I will (inevitably) own then deal with this fuckkery for another minute."

So I did. Call it quits that is.

And then I went home and watch Band of Brothers on DVD. Nothing heal a non-broken heart from a non-relationship like heterosexual men doing heterosexual things while making things go boom; all while running around in period costumes.

2012 is starting with a bang, you guys. A motherfucken bang.

Sunday, December 18, 2011

This is turning into a sappy Bridget Jones blog. I am sorry.

This is not a proper post. I just kinda need to run this by you guys, if people are still reading this shit.

So....I sort of...kinda....a little a cop.

I know, I KNOW! What the eff right?

It's just dates and there's nothing specific or official but he's really keen but I'm not really keen but he's young and he's fresh out of cop school (8 months!) and he's like buff and his ass looks really, really....really good in the uniform, you guys. Like really damn that ass is so tight, it could deflect bullets. Which is good, cause he's a cop. Could come in handy...the tight ass.

And if you guys remember anything at all about me, you remember my thing with uniform. Although I have always veered towards firefighters...

So it have only been dates and movies and no official "labelling" of such, but he's pushing for it and I'm holding it off....but I dunno.

He's cute. But he's a cop. And well.....a cop. He's going back to school next year so he could become a detective....but that's just fancier version of being a cop.

So I dunno. I think he's cute. And he's funny. Slightly pushy. And a bit possessive...but most men are possessive so nothing special there. Except that he has a gun. 


What should I do?! Cut it off cause he's a cop? I mean, dating is dating...and I sort of holding out for another guy who is not a cop whom I'm totally into and he's into me as well but he's a fucking pussy that won't ask me out and I'm like "I don't wanna make the first move cause I don't wanna emasculate you," so we both go around sneaking glances, and me flirting with other guys in front of him to make him jealous and have so many girls nights out where I profess my full blown crush on him to my girls and how the answer is yes, it will always be yes if he JUST. FUCKING. ASK. ME. OUT. ALREADY.

But he doesn't.

And then the cop dude comes around. And he asked me out and I said yes cause even though I totally like the other guy I'm like "I can't wait for you forever till you grow some balls and realize that you like me too and I need to be out there while I still have perky breasts and is this fucking hot and I really can't wait for you babe. Aaallll this, don't come easy. Fight for me." I said yes. 

And now I'm sort of dating a cute cop with a tight ass who wants to make it "official" while all I could think of is the other guy who always sneaking glances my way, who makes me happy by just being near, whose slight brush on my hands makes me sweat, whose the first thing I think about everyday -- but is doing nothing and there are problems at work and my friends are getting married all over and ohmygawd -- the pressure people, the pressure!

Also, my ass have not grown any tighter or any perkier eventhough I fucking take RPM classes 4 times a week and I do 60 squats EVERY. FUCKEN. DAY.

Oh wow....look at that. This is a proper post after all.

So dump the cop? Or have faith and see where this goes? I truly need an answer to this one people. I truly do. 

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Oh wow, I'm a writer. A legit one.

You guys! 

I'm back. Well, not to blogging per'se. But to Malaysia. I'm done with my degree, and I came back on August 30th, lounged around the house for 3 weeks before I started the job hunt. True testament to how much of a badass motherfucker I am, I was offered to 3 positions in 10 days and now is proudly employed! Mwahaahaha! Fuck, I was so scared that I was gonna be unemployed and shit cause I heard of people who took 6 months to find a job after uni but I did it in 10 days.


In case you guys are wondering what I do now...well I am a writer for a female-oriented magazine. Yes, I write for magazines. I use to fantasise telling people that I “write for a living” back when I was younger. The fantasy was when someone ask me what I do for a living, it was either:

“Oh, I'm a journalist...for the New Yorker.”

Yes, the New Yorker. Yes, I realize I'm from Malaysia and that I live in Klang and I get roti Naan from Little India every other day, but fuck you, it's my fantasy.

“Oh, I'm a writer. I have my own column in...”
Metamorph into Liz Lemon from 30 Rock.

So technically I don't have my own column or have metamorph into Tina Fey's altar ego...yet, but I get to say that I am a writer when people ask and it'll be totally legit! So yay me!

However, considering that I do write for a female-oriented mag, I do come up with stuff like “Is your husband cheating on you?!” and “Why your co-worker is avoiding you. Could it be B.O?!”.......And I graduated with a Bac. In Journalism with a Minor in Middle Eastern Studies. 

If you guys are going like “Middle Eastern, what the fuck now?” Cause you guys, I wanted to do SERIOUS journalism and work for the New Yorker and one day become a war correspondence cause let's face it, there is no such thing as peace in the Middle East. Like, ever. 
When it bleeds, it leads and I am all for milking the cow till it dries and die out of dehydration.

Don't get me wrong, I been writing for the mag for 2 weeks now and I have been enjoying myself and learning so much but at the back of my mind...there's a voice that's going:

“You're a 3rd wave feminist with a minor in Middle Eastern Studies. You care about politics. You read the Huffington Post in your free time. You know who Maureen Dowd is. You rallied in Gay Rights and volunteered at women shelters. So riddle me this, why are you writings shit like 'How to achieve orgasms during pregnancy sex'?”

Because I need a job. 

Because I am a hypocrite. 

Because Capitalism is the modern day god and I am but a humble servant appeasing it for mercy on my bank account.

Also, I bought a car and now I'm 45k in debt and bish, I haven't even received my first cheque so excuse me for selling my soul to The Man.
Just because I write about trite, fluffy, inconsequential things does not mean I care any less or that I am a bad feminist. I am just trying to make ends meet here. Plus, when your editor read your first piece for the first time, giggles, look at you and say “You're very dramatic aren't you? I can tell from your writing” and you tried to keep a poker face, but she continued “I love it! Can you spin it and make it more sensational though...” There's that warm feeling inside that goes, that despite principles and beliefs...that maybe low-brow journalism is where you belong...
For now, anyway.

Plus, who can say no to a company whose dress code BANNED button downs and corporate attire and is totally cool to wear mini skirts and band t-shirts to long as you pair it with heels and lunch hour is any hour between 9 to 6pm and their business card is in hot pink. 

Glossy, hot pink.

I know I can't.