If life was a talent show, I’d be voted off already…

This ain't me, folks. Really.

A thought came to me while I was on one of my evening jogs. (I was thinking so much that I almost fell into a drain. I fell nonetheless.):

What are my talents?

Hmm, let’s see, shall we? Is digging my nose to uncover green gems of gloop whilst typing out an SMS considered a talent worth bragging about? On second thought, I don’t think I want to list that when I go to an interview. I can burp the ABCs but normally by the time I reach M I’m slightly out of saliva. I can come up with the most inane conversation starters but the time I reach the middle it gets lame.

I’m not so sure myself. I can barely play the guitar. I find it difficult trying to hit shuttlecocks going at speeds even tortoises would laugh at me (if they had a sense of humour and a funny shell, get it? shell? hehe). My running skills are only feasible for five minutes and after that I’ll just pass out from embarrassment. My computer skills are limited to the things I know which aren’t much to begin with. I try to read five books at a time but I end up getting a headache from trying too hard to follow just one. My cooking skills are excellent provided I don’t cook in the first place. I try to sound all-knowing and burly but in the end I come out as slightly cocky and very cheesy nerd.

So what is my claim to fame? What makes Chris stand out from a crowd of talented, multi-talented, super-talented people? The answer is simple:

By being me, I guess.

I think that pretty much sums up everything.

Here’s something I wrote during my five-week course that I somehow forgot to include previously:

Wow.

The third week of my not-really-5-week course is now over. Just slightly over a month ago, I was busy doing nothing. I’m so preoccupied that I even forget to shave. My beard. No funny thoughts. The last two weekends just blitzed by like a, um, blizzard. And the next two will be no different. In fact, they’re going to go by so fast, I’ll have a beard of epic proportions by the time I get to the exam room (no hall, since the organisers are cheapskates).

Mr. Overachiever, who, henceforth shall be known simply as Bloody Idiot, confuses my confused face with my I’m-thinking-but-it-looks-like-I’m-confused face. He’s a nice guy; humorous (he laughs at his own little jokes) but his thick accent makes the jokes sound like a fish trying to spew water out from its mouth. But get him into a classroom, and he’ll transform into a 12-year-old with a beard of epic proportions. Nasty.

I’d like to think I’m one of those guys who can multi-task. You know, for instance, brushing my teeth and headbanging. That kind of thing. The last three weeks have been anything but.

Shucks. I have to go now. I have a course to finish.

And on a much happier note, I’d like to announce that I start my new job next week, Monday! While the job is somewhat dissimilar in area from the course that I took, nevertheless, it’s still under the same scope. I’m excited as can be, so much so I’m planning to get myself a new pair of trousers. Yes, trousers!

Till the next time, take care y’all.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Oh, and if I were to quit in two weeks, well, you know where to find me.

Another lugubrious and angry as heck post!

Well, no.

With my last post being an utterly saddening affair, I thought I'd come up with something funny, witty and nonsensical.

It didn't materialise.

Instead, I present to you this:

Enjoy, people! And remember, even if you don't have the mood to dance, this will surely perk you up!

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Mourinho no more! Muahahaha!

Monsters are among us

Crap.

Since I failed my exam not too long ago, I’m in my little room, studying and studying and trying to remember what went wrong. It’s a Saturday and I should be out and about, scouring the scene on the lookout for some fun, right? Nah. I’m too parsimonious and my eyes for night driving are about as good as bat’s in the daytime. The realisation of it is that I now know the difference between a function and a decision operation. It’s Greek to you but it’s practically the language of love to me. But whenever I think that I’ve had a crummy and craptastic day, nothing, and I mean nothing, compares to the anguish suffered by families whose wonderful lives have suddenly taken a turn for the absolute worst.

A beautiful, young girl was “kidnapped” (no one knows for sure) in Portugal while her parents when out to get dinner but a few hundred feet away from their holiday apartment. One might think, how can parents leave their children—especially young ones—just to get dinner? Everyone knows it’s a hassle but isn’t safety more important? I reserve judgement, for as they say, innocent until proven guilty.

Not far away, a young boy, who after playing a game of football, was on his way home when he was fatally shot by a bicycle-riding youth. He was an eleven-year-old who, like me, a big football fan. The only difference is that he won’t get to see any more matches. Some sick bastard decided to end his life. Because of what? What sane reason could the killer give? What the hell is going when kids can just get on a bike and point blank shoot someone?

In the local front, on the front page was the simple headline “Girl Killed”. A day later in the same paper, it was reported that the girl’s mother and her boyfriend were remanded. They were under suspicion of murdering the child. Her own mother. The case was hot news but now the girl is just a distant memory. And since the Chinese are absolutely bonkers when it comes to superstition and all that feng shui shit, they said to themselves, “Let go to the bet bet store!” This is human behaviour at its most despicable and I hope the punters suffer some form of malignant fungal growth on their genitals for their seemingly lack of respect and compassion.

What the hell is the world coming to? Guns can be purchased from a back alley and now the customers are kids. Children killing other children are sick and depraved. I don’t care if there’s such thing as “effective rehabilitation” or something to that effect, once you’ve committed an atrocity against a human being, (or animals, even) you deserve to be punished accordingly. It’s the same with paedophiles and rapists, you may be able to wash away their stains but you can never cleanse their damned soul.

Some people deserve to live and others don’t.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: My heart goes out to all those who have tragically lost a loved one. May they find eternal peace, wherever they are.

Fuck

62.

Nope, that is not the number of children I want to have by the time I’m 30. That’s the score I got for the exam. The one that I failed on Monday morning. Passing mark? A not too distant 70. I needed eight more. A measly eight and I would’ve been a certified CONsultant. Fo sho, as they say. Lady Luck didn’t smile on me. I think she was on leave.

You know what’s worst than failing? Being monstrously hungry and dreadfully sleepy and, of course, failing. To further compound my wretched start to the day, my glasses decided to break while I was midway into the exam. It broke by itself, I swear. I started chuckling. The other people thought I was mad. They probably they thought I was an asshole for disrupting their concentration. I sincerely apologise. After getting over the fact that I didn’t get the highest marks I so dreamt about, and to console myself, I headed for lunch. I had spaghetti Napolitano, which essentially was spaghetti with ugly meatballs and even uglier mixed vegetables. The three sad-looking meatballs were surprisingly all right. They were so hot they burned my tongue. On the way back, the train decided to stop having air-conditioning. Someone’s shoes smelled really bad. I missed the feeder bus by a whisker. I had to wait 45 minutes for the next one in the stifling heat. Someone’s armpits smelled really bad. In the evening, Mother Nature decided to throw in her own brand of misery by turning on the heavenly sprinklers (an awful analogy, I know) just as I was about to go for a jog.

I'm gonna make cellophane tape on glasses sexy.

I can take the studying bit, and really I have no other choice since I’m already in it for life, but it’s the paying-for-the-re-sit that’s a major bummer. It ain’t cheap; it’s someone’s pay and a bit more. Maybe I can get my future employer to pay for it. Or at least subsidise it a little. I’m well worth it. I think.

Anyhow, here’s a big congratulations to the Cookie Man (have a safe journey back to Slovenia! I know you’re not reading this, but what the heck) and to my dear friend, Fill, for finally getting something good after enduring a tumultuous time the last couple of months. It’s nice to hear good news when you’re feeling like shit.

In hindsight, I think I did the very best I could. As disappointed as I am, honestly, getting a 62 is pretty darn good considering some of the questions just boggled me silly. Better luck the next time, was the invigilator’s words. He’s right. By the time I’m done posting this, I’ll most probably be finally unpacking my bag, sorting out my notes and preparing for the next round, which will be in a month’s time. I hope to get a job as well, hoping that any potential employers wouldn’t mind hiring a hardworking yet still uncertified dude.

In the mean time, I think I’m going for some retail therapy.

This is Chris, signing off.

PS: Never, ever, study at 1 a.m. and then getting up later at 5 a.m. to study again on the day of your exam. It be bad, yo.