Not a Feminist… Random
Today was one of those days in which work takes up all your time, and you’re just there wondering what happened to you; the you who swore vehemently just a year ago that she would never wear a blazer and sit in anyone’s office for up to three hours. Or the you who promised herself that if there was any cause to sit in a meeting for up to four hours, it had to be extremely personal business and not “office work”. Anyways, I am sitting as I have been for the last six hours, I am working, t is 6:16pm, and I am exhausted.
I just finished reading a post somewhere online that made me stop for a minute and feel goose bumps. I am supposed to be working on a report, and my boss is in the conference room having another meeting I will no doubt have to join sooner or later. This was originally going to be a write up about how each writer is different, how sometimes one can relay a strong message writing funny, and the other does a silly by writing serious stuff, how writers are really very dangerous because of the power that their words and usage of said words carry. But I somehow lost that train of thought the moment I started writing this.
I don’t know what this is about, and I can’t say what my mood is; but I know I want to go home and curl up in my bed with a good Korean rom-com, and some blackberry tea laced with mint. It’s funny how you think that things will work out one way, and they just bend sharply; you’re left standing there wondering when you stopped being young, carefree and silly, when you became this person with a big schedule and a list of responsibilities.
It’s barely one week into the month, and I am calculating how many days till month’s end. Somehow, I have developed this irrational fear of not having enough, and it messes up my mind. There are so many things to blame; the economy, the government, the system, my background — the list is so long. I think the hardest thing is breaking out of the restraints of one’s background; whether rich or poor. I am not poor though; I am from one of those middle class families that mix well enough with both sides; but the hustle is still strong. Could be why I don’t want marriage; at least for now. Could be; not going to address that.
Pressure. I think that is the biggest factor; pressure. When you’re a first child, you spend your whole life being responsible for those that came after you, and everybody else around.
My immediate younger brother is never wrong. Well, not literally, but somehow he seems to escape all the trouble I manage to get into. Even when he does the exact same thing that I have done. I say it all the time that he owns my mother’s ‘mumu button’; no one realizes that I am serious when I say it. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that he is a middle child, and everything to do with the fact that he is the first son. I will never know; I don’t like asking questions whose answers might hurt, or bring more confusing questions. Like why is a first son treated better than a first daughter? God knows I am not a feminist; don’t even know how to be one.
“He is a boy, you are a girl. Stop comparing yourselves.” — Mother
Not a feminist.
It is 06:32pm; I just farted rather loudly. Thankfully, I am alone in the office. I hope no one enters now; I will die of embarrassment. Now someone else’s phone is ringing; they will have to come in and pick the call.