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.
TCDO = BAMF.
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,
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 work...as 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.