... Actually, to heck with the cons-truism!!!
*Any resemblance to persons living or dead should be plainly apparent to them and those who know them, especially if the author has been kind enough to have provided their real names and, in some cases, their phone numbers. All events described herein actually happened, though on occasion the author has taken certain, very small, liberties with chronology, emotional quotient and the characters' previously worshiped existential claims, because that is her right as an Indian.*
The following might look lyk something from the Dairy of the Hallucinating Ranter, but let me put you at ease. It's not. It is, just for your information, from the whirlpool of my irresistible imagination. You may clap now.
At this juncture in my lyf, several of my friends, especially the ones I grew up with, are either married, engaged or even worse... about to take the plunge into the Big Bad World of Jobs. I lyk Jobs. I have nothing against the process of Searching for Employment. In my spare tym, I even equate it to the insatiable search for Lowe. And lyk the metaphor used, I find that I have been sorely rejected and dejected. (That ought to explain the sour-grapes like taste of this article).
In the rare case/s I refused an offer, I have faced nothing but paramount regret. But then the Voice of Reason, (you know the nagging sort, which guides our daily actions with a rein so tight sometimes that even the most disciplined of canines manage to feel a morsel of sympathy towards us) snaps in to action and reminds me of the things I love. The most important in this particular context being my Middle Name - Mukti. I cherish my Freedom quite a bit more than the everyday Ram, Shyam or Anna. Therefore, I choose to not let the sadness weigh me down and get back at the world with sarcasm. Here goes nothing~
Why exactly would one want to enter the rat race and get ready for the crab tales? Pray why would I want to be paid to be made to feel just about as useful as my tonsils? I mean, lyf at the bottom of the food chain is no fun! And isn't it well known that the duties of an intern resemble those of a well-trained Labrador. The best part is, you get to spend hours fetching! And most of the labour is performed free and only at the cost of one's own dignity/ self-image. You also tend to be surrounded by individuals who run amok feeling lyk the lowest form of marine lyf, even lower than planktons and barnacles.
According to dearest N*, (Identity has been changed, hence, to not compromise her future of a well-paid job.) who has lead a cushy lyf, it gives her heebie-jeebies just thinking about her impending interviews.
Nevertheless, if the elusive job ever comes my way, I have been preparing in my own little ways to impress the Employer. I have been practicing cart-wheels secretly in the dead of the night. I have also, I am immensely proud to declare, perfected the art of "I-am-amused-at-whatever-my-boss-slash-owner-says-to-me-expression". *Sighs* Why do I have a terrible gut-feeling that I am never going o b e able to crib about having a pathetic social lyf anymore... Darn you, ChennaaaY! Now every place seems better equipped for fun than you ever were!
There! Enough of the meandering and back to pretending to work. That's all folks!
No comments:
Post a Comment