Current Fodder for Mental Masturbation

My resignation letter. Marinating it in the drafts.

- Oizys.

A Collage of Micromanagement and Masquerades

Last week was a whirlwind. One of my professors finally defended his PhD, a momentous occasion that left everyone in awe. Meanwhile, another killed his father for being debt-ridden. The contrast was stark and unsettling, setting the tone for the week. It has been painting thoughts in my mind lately, filling my head with vivid images.

I decided to take a leave from work, my first in a long time. The reason? My new team lead. Once a close colleague, her promotion had transformed her into a micromanaging tyrant. She insisted on hovering over me or sometimes having me on her lap, her breath hot on my neck, as she nitpicked every detail of my work. Our relationship, once cordial, had soured. Her yellow highlighter slashed through my mistakes, while her use of a whitener to obscure my hard work and hardships felt like a cruel joke.

My family does not know I am on leave. I lie and sit in front of my computer, acting like I am working. I have been hiding a lot of things. Each click of the mouse the moment I (fake-)clocked in felt like another step deeper into the labyrinth of my hidden truths, where every corner held a secret begging to be screamed out. A week of leave passed by, which began with thoughts of accomplishing tasks and ended with the burden of being unable to accomplish them, with a garnish of regret for procrastination, of course!

But I did not entirely waste it. I fed corporations my same details again and again that I have been feeding since time immemorial to get a job. Inducing action verbs into my personality while keeping it compact and one-page since it is only an infant in profesh terms. Making it parse-able for the AI to grab it as someone exciting yet oppression-worthy. I did make one of those rejection email collages* to end this ephemeral week off. But I do not have an offer letter at the end to add the effect of success. Just a museum of failures. Normally, I delete one as soon as I receive one. I had a few lying around. Revisiting them was... fun and a masochistic ritual. The wounds are surprisingly fresh. It is good to keep picking up those past reminders of being unachieved and underqualified.

Amidst the chaos, there was a brief moment of joy. On Wednesday afternoon, I made sandwiches with my mother and sister. It was a rare, serene interlude. But even in that moment of nicety, my inner critic, the animal within, roared in disapproval.

- Oizys.

*Here it is:

Diary of a Whiny Goddess

Should I give an introduction to myself? Well, if I had to... I would not call myself a diarist. But, if I were to be one, that would be my label, A Whiny Diarist. Just a sad person whining about the cheesy combo offer of Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition. A whiny diarist who uses a thesaurus to hide her disgusting stagnancy behind curated phrases and words. Do you think the following sounds like a good landing page:

Welcome, dear (literally non-existent, I guess?) readers, to the confessions of my oh-not-so-delightfully mundane existence. If life were a symphony, mine would be a melancholic melody peppered with whimsical outbursts and a touch of existential pondering. Consider me your guide through the labyrinth of my ordinary days, where I navigate the treacherous maze of questionable decisions and an uncanny knack for attracting bizarre misadventures.

Now, don't mistake me for a professional complainer or a seasoned moaner. No, no, no. I prefer to embrace my unofficial title as 'A Whiny Diarist' with a hint of pride. Picture a weathered, vintage sign hanging above a shop of paraphernalia that reads, 'Whines and Whimsies.' That's where I'd belong—a sanctuary for the lamentations of a perpetually perplexed soul.

You see, life has gifted me with a mesmerizing whine-cheese combo platter: 'Shitty Luck + Shittier Intuition.' It's like the universe thought, 'Hmm, let's see how many curveballs we can throw at this poor soul,' and then decided to crank up the difficulty level for good measure. But fear not, for I am armed with a thesaurus—a secret weapon I wield to veil my deplorable stagnancy behind carefully curated phrases and words that might just make you think, 'Ah, she's got it together.'

So, dear (actual and potential) readers, fasten your seatbelt and prepare for a rollercoaster ride through the depths of my mind, where I'll share (s)tales of routs that taste bittersweet, heartaches that leave an exquisite ache, and moments of vulnerability that will make you laugh, cry, doubt my existence and question my life choices and.

Join me as I navigate this messy maze called life, armed with zero humor, wit, and a flailing touch of sarcasm. Let's embark on this wild journey together, where my mundane becomes extraordinarily eerie, my whining transforms into subjugated art, and my tears eventually merge with hysterical laughter.

Grab a cup of tea, find a cozy nook that may or may not have a suspicious-looking stain, and let's dive headfirst into the unsightly, rotting chaos of my everyday existence. Trust me, it's anything but (un)interesting.

- Oizys.

NaPoWriMo Day 13: God Joke or Dad Joke

Prompt: Write a poem that follows the beats of a classic joke. Emphasize the interplay between the form of the poem – such as the line breaks – and the punchline.

 

A child asks
Is God real?

The mother replies
Well, it's ideal

She further asks
Is God perfect?

The mother smirks
Not quite, I suspect

The child cries
Is God right?

The mother sighs
It's quite the oversight

She shockingly demands
Will God appear before me?

The mother tries to understand
"Maybe on Zoom, let's see"

She gets sad and thinks
Will God ever speak to me?

They hear a voice

The child asks
Is it God?

The voice says,
"Nah, it's a bird"

"It is your Dad!"
The mother says

The child squeals
"That's not so bad!"

- Oizys.

Sorry
I am
Not So
Good At
Happiness
Or Funny.
Can I
Interest You
With Some
Bad Poems?
Some Cheese?