Thank you for calling. GOODBYE for good!

Stepping into the unknown is something that I am really scared of. I'm used to playing safe. I always have this feeling of dread each time something new is bound to happen and shake the steady flow of my life. I am not the adventurous person I always wanted myself to be. I'm afraid of making mistakes, partly because I'm scared of what other people would say or think of me. Most of the choices I make are usually based not on what I truly want but of what I want others expect of me. It's a sad realization, really, but oh well, it's a flaw that I find very hard to get rid of.

I am now stepping into that unknown. Honestly, it's not because I have changed. Change still creeps me out. I guess you can call this decision a shot in the dark. I am now turning the wheels 180 degrees. I don't know what lies out there but I am leaving what I thought was the ideal life for me. Plush offices, carpeted floors, air-conditioned rooms, busy smart people, the outside noise and morning traffic, late night gimiks, cafe and hotel hopping and a lot of traveling spree - who wouldn't want to live a life like this? I could have been happier if I am also happy with my job. Don't get me wrong. I just can't help this frustration of working so hard and not excelling. This maybe because I am striving more in trying to love my job that to excel in it. That pathetically took three long years. It's just really not for me. So when the chance to get out of it came, I found it logical to grab it. I've been to a lot of places and maybe, just maybe, this will be where I'll find what I've been looking for.

This call center life has transformed me into things I know no other job can do. I am and will always be thankful of the company that has provided me a lot of chances to grow and learn technically and socially. I take no pride of what I've achieved (which I know isn't much), but I do take pride of the knowledge that I have acquired during those three long years as a technical support representative. Not everyone knows how to configure a router, or an access point, or setup those well-known IP cameras or a network attached storage, or even print servers. A far cry from what others believe of what a call center agent does, JUST answer calls.

Letting go is never easy. I will surely miss a lot of things, those cute moments that has made me laugh and cry...

...like the nervousness of taking my very first call for the day. I used to do the sign of the cross before I go on auto-in. It took me six months before getting over it.

...the fingers-crossing each time I pitch for a sale (relate2x!)

...the pride whenever I close an STX sale

...the I-never-though-I-am-techy feeling whenever I fix a surveillance camera or a NAS. That's why I hate print servers.

...the tempting moment of releasing a call from an irate customer

...my numerous don't-mess-with-me attitude with my customer

...the 5-minute eating exercise

...the thrill of escaping from OTs (haha!)

...the moment of getting pissed when I can't piss (oooppps!)

...the numerous pigouts at wee hours of the day

...my dearest BOLTON BLAZE and CADILLAC family

...a few newfound friends in my new account

...my twin bitches QUIEL and TRISHIA (you're what I'll miss the most)

I guess that cool Concentrix black jacket is intended for someone else...I'm going to expand my horizons. I will climb my way up there (in the mountains...hehe). Our fellow countrymen is in need of someone like me to work for the government (char lang!). That might be my calling, not "Thank you for calling". Kidding aside, I never regretted that moment when I applied for a 'technical support representative' position without knowing that I will become a call center agent. My verbal skills are just about average to have the nerve to even think of applying. But I survived. I've had my fair share of recognition and reprimands. If not because of the people I've worked with and the compensation, I wouldn't have lasted for three years in the BPO industry. I'm not closing doors but I don't wanna go back as much as possible. I guess it's time to stop and use my other cards. I don't know if I made the right decision but I will never know the answer to that unless I gamble.

My last logout =)

Well, this is it! Once again, thank you for calling. GOODBYE for good!

No Fear

I was on my way to a job interview a while ago when I saw this billboard near the bus terminal.

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

I found this article while blog-walking and so I posted it in response to my previous post. =)

By CHARLES WARNKE

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. 

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.