I quit my job and it was worth my while.
Tell you frankly, I once liked that former job but got only disappointed of how things turned out as it was. I felt some pangs of qualms, of course, for leaving the place and some good people I worked with, and yet also happy for making the decision.
The days that followed were days of what they called 'a new phase’ of life, specifically, of a solitary one. I spent most of my time reading in my room, and sometimes, when the fancy of jotting down some nagging thoughts, I’d write in my notebook, or watch films, mostly those of Anthony Hopkins and Johnny Depp. That had become a rote for a couple of weeks with some welcoming interruptions when the girlfriend called, or when we dined together and then walked her home, or when Ms. En emailed me to get some money of which I’ve no idea of having.
Some little troubles with solitary occupation are the habit of eating that I sometimes found buggering. I’d need to go out and buy some food. Most days I’d no appetite and ate only when hungry. But I’ve got some good stock of the usual rum, gin, whisky, brandy, Chinese wine – of all them cheap booze, of course, and sometimes beers and cola, and a bounty of cheap nescafe that I find satisfying in fixing myself with the coffeemaker which was given to me as gift by the girlfriend.
A day would fly fast and it would soon be sundown when I am almost over with a book, or sometimes finished two in a day. I was rather catching fast with my reading, giving myself a quota of two piles that I put on top of the TV where I can easily see them with authors such as E. L. Doctorow, F. Sionel Jose, Ralf Ellison, Nick Joaquin, Bernard Malamud, Sinclair Lewis, Norman Mailer, Frank McCourt, Dreiser, Joan Didion, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Friedrich Nietzhie, Dostoevsky and Orwell, among others. Well, let’s just say I love to read and so fuck what you think.
The occupation of reading, of course, would make me react in them that would stirred the violent reactionist in me, making me reach for a pencil and papers and scribbled the impressions. Most of the time, I just read and think a lot. Meanwhile, the depleting stock of the wine would made me think of the inevitable trouble of landing a job again, supplied with the lavish encouragement of the girlfriend. I need to work again dammit to support meself, pay some rent and buy me some drinks. And so no matter how I digress, I cannot but to concede. Gosh, why can't one just die of occupying himself of what he loves most?
That brings me to the present: this first weekend of my new job. From editor to this so-called Advertising Specialist (or whatever the fuck it means) of yet another International Corporate Business. The excitement of the new job, new environment and working with new people trumps my desire to postpone doing a “real work” (as mother called it) and live in yet some days of pleasurable solitude.