The problem with sweet.

Being called sweet or cute by a girl means game over. You have failed spectacularly in your attempt to seduce her. It means that somewhere along the way, you have (again) crossed that infuriatingly fine line that separates friend from lover. In fact, you are now closer to a brother, and you will likely receive more romantic overtures from your family dog than you will from this girl. The same goes for "cute", as in "you are so cute" which roughly translates in girl-speak to "you are so not getting any tonight".

Expect to be invited over to watch the O.C or The Hills. Expect to be subjected to stories of the sex-filled weekend she just had with your friend, the one with the tattoos who dropped out of school and subsists purely on adrenaline and good karma. Because after all, you're just so G-d damned adorable.

If you are pondering whether I recently was the unwilling recipient of this dooming adjective, well I think that's pretty obvious. The saying "nice guys finish last" has never been more applicable.

idle chatter

You never really think about your personal space until you are jammed into an elevator with 20 strangers. Then a strange thing happens - you get a little panicky. Your heart starts beating a little faster, your brow becomes a little sweatier, and you are certainly not comfortable. Why does this happen? It's a purely instinctive response - someone entering your space is assumed to be threatening. No matter how well styled their suits, how polished their shoes. Wardrobe is something that you will no doubt acknowledge in this situation. Why?

Well because you can't, G-d forbid, look anyone in the eye. Preposterous. That's just too confrontational - like having a staring contest with an angry dog, it's just not done. Say a polite hello? Craziness. Glance in the mirrors which are most likely surrounding you and you are vain. Not too mention you could be caught staring at another person's reflection, an aforementioned faux paux. Stare at the ground and you are lacking confidence. It really is a no-win situation.

Then there's etiquette - when someone behind you needs to get out, do you do the squeeze or the full move out? There is always some small fear that the full move out will leave me stuck on a different floor. So I just squeeze.

Tomorrow I will just smile at everyone like an escaped mental patient, staring everyone in the face until they acknowledge my craziness. What, it's better than staring at the floor for 30 seconds.

the usual sunday night jibber-jabber

Well the weekend, to be fair, was fair. Couple of drinks on Friday, a bit of poker with the peeps on Saturday (good times), and a totally wasted Sunday consisting of gym, TV and cold pizza.

Now 12am, I feel a sense of deja vu - another weekend has come and gone, and I've done what I've always done and got what I've always gotten. Not to say the weekend was bad, but let's just say it lacked some level of satisfaction and fulfillment. The administrative stuff I procrastinate over is left undone, save for the odd basket of laundry and bill payment. Yes, I've done some exercise and got some sleep, but am I revitalized? Nope. The prospect of another week of work looms large - and I realize something's got to give. Work wise, life wise, it's all just stagnated.

The weeks keep fleeting by, like the blurred/fuzzy image of Rosie O' Donnell passing by in her chase for the ice-cream truck, and nothing much changes. And it really is my own fault. I make no active effort to make the most of my free time, and I think it's a trap a lot of us fall into. We work 5 days out of 7, and we probably will for another 40 odd years until we retire - so we better fucking well make use of those 2 days, wouldn't you agree?

I have never been a planner, but that's about to change. My life has been on autopilot for the last few years, but I am taking back control of the reigns baby.

highs and lows

I've had a run of bad luck at the office recently. And while I believe that bad luck is the crutch of fools, I honestly think my deal drought owes more to dirty, nasty torrid awful luck than to any lack of skill on my part. I am better at my job than ever before - every person I speak to I can engage. Yet I feel like the guy at the poker table who keeps on getting pocket kings while his sworn enemy is getting pocket aces. I am far from folding, from throwing in the towel - I am made of tougher stuff. I am working harder than ever before, and I know something will come out of it in the end. The journey is difficult however.

A funny quote:
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There's no use being a damn fool about it.
W.C. Fields

Play for more than you can afford to
lose and you will learn the game.
Winston Churchill

All men dream but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible.
T.E. Lawrence

Life is like a game of cards. The hand that is dealt you represents determinism; the way you play it is free will.
Jawaharal Nehru

Back in the habit

As usual I don't really have a topic to write about, so in all likelihood this post is going to be a rambling, shambolic mess. Let us begin, shall we? I used to think I was good at office politics. I thought I was the ultimate chess-master, thinking 5 moves in advance, an integral strategy belying every single move. I was the master of my domain, the ultimate survivor - I would outlast, outwit and outplay them all. I could not put a finger wrong. Then I started playing it. And realized that my skills left a lot to be desired, and like Kasparov's arrogance eventually led to his loss at the hands of an "unintelligent" computer, I am quite certain I will be humbled by my lack of attention to this subtle, yet integral part of business warfare.

I am not good at sucking up, I never have been. There are those to whom this is a natural skill. They have their noses so far up their boss's ass that they can see what they ate for lunch. These are unsurprisingly the same kids in school who volunteered answers for even the simplest of questions; always with an eagerness that left me wanting to place a boot through their two smiling front teeth.

These are the people rising up the corporate ladder like Rosie O'Donnell trying to run down an ice-cream truck. That's right, fast. And why? Are they brilliant? Nope. Are they above-average? Nope. They're simply intent on sticking their g'damn noses up every ass they see and hoping it sticks.

Homie don't play that game, no sir. Well, maybe not until now.