You Can Always Get What You Don’t Want
I always knew they would eventually get me. They were never out to get me, no, it wasn’t like I was getting my head hunted or anything. On the contrary, they would much rather get someone else, if they could, I’m sure. They can sense the reluctance, the lack of focus and motivation, the fact that everything about my temperament and personality is ill-suited to the life they have to offer. They can sense that I will only end up disgruntled and under-performing. They can sense it in me like a dog senses fear and I sense a hot dog from a mile away. But maybe that’s what they secretly thrive on. Not money, not capital, not economic growth; not team-spirit and dynamism; not excellent organizational skills or pride. No. Maybe, they secretly thrive on the crushing of souls, souls who are delusional enough to think that they are sensitive, artistic and free. Muahaha, we’ll show them, they whisper behind their steel desks and removable cubicle walls, we’ll give them a taste of it – they won’t be hooked but by The Gods of Stable Monthly Income and Medical Benefits, they will be stuck, muahahahaha muahahahah muahahahah dan ini fail yang encik mintak. I always knew that I’d end up allowing them to have me. Because that’s the story of my life so far. I always somehow end up committing to things or situations that I’m utterly unenthusiastic about.
It could be the little things.
Like being enrolled in the Science stream at school when I was pretty sure I couldn’t care less about what chemical reaction would happen if I mixed, I don’t know, uranium hydrocarbonite with Boron and stuck it on top of a Bunsen burner; when I couldn’t care less what a fucking cross section of a dicotyledonous plant looks like (they’re all smiley faces to me); when I couldn’t care less about mathematics let alone Additional Mathematics – If 2XYZ = 36 is the blab la of bla what is X? (Tak tahu, nanti saya balik saya tanya kakak saya. Tapi dia pun tak tahu. So how? Like dat lor……0 – apa jenis jawapan ni? Sila jumpa cikgu selepas kelas.) And to all 15 year olds considering entering the science stream just because “it’s encouraged by the government and YOUR MA”; I think you should know, that I still haven’t found any use for any of it. Of course, if you plan to be a doctor, engineer, nuclear physicist, CSI-dude or just really, really want to find out what X is then I’m sure you will. All the best.
It could be the little things.
Like asking the stylist to give me an “edgier, not-so-boring haircut - think Chrissie Hynde or Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or heck, even Rhianna (what? Her ‘Umbrella’ sucks but I like the hair)” I figured I could trust the stylist. He dresses like he’s in a cool indie band with the right touch of Gay. Instead, I come out of the salon with my hair all blown-out looking, in my sister’s words, “like a Katie Holmes-Bot. Hahahahahahah”. Great. Katie Holmes might be the Bride of Xenu and new best friend to that outer-space creature called Victoria Beckham but somehow, she doesn’t satisfy my definition of ‘edgy’. The next day, my sister says, “Well, actually, you look like Ringo Starr. Hahaha.” Circa before The Beatles discovered LSD. You know the hair. The Mop do’. She was being kind. By the end of the week, what my hair really looked like was Javier Bardem in No Country for Old Men. These days, my hair pretty much resembles a mushroom. There was an annoying kid I knew in Primary School whom I used to call “Mushroom Head” on account of her dodgy haircut. Well, who’s the mushroom head now? Who da’ mushroom head now? Yes, karma’s a bitch.
It could be the little things.
Like ending up being stuck in conversation with The Ugly Friend at a party because I could barely even look The Cute One in the eye, let alone charm him with my wit and humor. Not even when The Cute One notices my new haircut and says “You look nice.” Not even when The Cute One whose sight and judgment had been affected by Vodka (that means finally, a chance for me) comes swaggering over in his skinny jeans and says “Hey, they’re playing the song we both like. Come and dance.” And I say “Okay, in a while” right after I politely finish the sentence I was saying to The Ugly Friend. And then the song is over. And Cute One’s gone off with some gorgeous Scandinavian (someone try to convince me that not all Swedish girls are insanely fit and good looking!) skank he met on the dancefloor. And I’m left to hang out for the rest of the night in The Stoner/Social-Pariah corner with The Ugly Friend who says such things as, “You know, I’m only doing my MBA over here for fun. I’m actually an actor back in the States. Got an agent and everything.” Oh really? What have you done? “Just this commercial. For a bible.” A bible commercial? “Hey, the bible’s the best selling book of all time,” he says. Yes, I’m sure the publishers have Jesus, Peter, Paul & Matthew and not you to thank for that. The Ugly Friend asked me such questions as, “Are you a tortured artist?” What the fuck? “You look like a tortured artist…what you’re wearing, makes you look like a tortured artist.” I should’ve known. I was wearing all black. Black smock dress, black ribbed wool stockings, black ballet flats, black peacoat. The look I was aiming for was Parisian Chic. I should’ve known that my aim, with all things be it bowling or sartorial statements is as good as a drunk with Parkinsons who just got off three thousand turns on the Merry-Go-Round. I wanted to look like a chic Parisian woman and I ended up looking like a broody frustrated art student. And I was classmates with a lot of the latter and knew for sure that it was exactly something I didn’t want to come across as. But I did. Because success in my life is a 7 letter word spelled backwards. I’ve achieved many things in life that I never thought I’d like to achieve. And still don’t want to. And Ugly Friend asks again, “So are you a tortured artist?” No. I’m just tortured. Period. And at the end of the night, I go home mentally kicking myself in the ass for not taking advantage of the Cute One while he was drunk. That is not to say that there was any certainty that I would’ve succeeded even if I tried (I’m aware of my limitations, thanks). And that’s just the thing isn’t it? It sucks a lot less to fail at the things you don’t care about than the ones you do.
I took an online quiz for fun that ended up being no fun. The quiz was called “How Will You Grow Old?” And it said if I continue on the path I’m currently on, I will grow old “Grumpy and Resentful”. But I’m already grumpy and resentful, Captain Obvious.
I listen to music, watch films, look at works of fine art, read books and essays by people who have attained a certain degree of success (or at least some small form of recognition) for it and I think to myself, “Well, if this is absolute crap is considered fit for public consumption then so is my crap. Heck, I can do better.” But I don’t. I don’t do. I just sit there and rant like Jack Black in High Fidelity without the triumphant performance of Let’s Get it On at the end. Because I don’t have the talent but most importantly, the balls, the guts, the mental strength and the shamelessness to go after what I really want. Because sometimes, I think I don’t really know what I really want.
You get what you know. The secret is you get what you know.
And sometimes, I think I only know the things I don’t want.
And now I’m getting yet another something I don’t particularly want.
All wrapped up in a crisp shirt and tie.
They called to say that I start work on Monday.
The people from the company I didn’t actually apply to join; they called to say that I start the job I don’t really want on Monday.
It’s a company that handles Industrial Manufacturing, Engineering and Oil & Gas. Yeah, that really sounds like me, doesn’t it?
They said be in the office. By 8.30 am. Welcome to the Corporate World
And I didn’t say no. I didn’t say, “Fuck ye and yer cocksuckin Mondays; I’m gonna live on love and poetry, man! Oh, and also rock and roll. Damn the man!” No, I said exactly what I didn’t want to say. And then I felt sick.
Of course, at this point, I have to (as usual) include some wise words from The Mother. “You don’t seem too excited about your new job. Why are you not happy about getting a job?!! You scowl when you don’t have a job, you scowl when you get a job. You know why you’re always unhappy, Maryam? Because you’re bleeding ungrateful. UNGRATEFUL, UNGRATEFUL, UNGRATEFUL!”
Hmm..That’s probably it.
Thank You.
