Am I even the literal sense of the word? Do I deserve to be called one?
I don’t know — do you?
English isn’t my first language by any means. I graduated high school at 13 but dropped out of university twice. They say third time’s the charm; I believe they’re right.
In my third attempt, I finally found my passion — cooking.
You know when you don’t ever get lazy or bored of what you’re doing? You’re always energised and excited to go to school, and you just want to keep learning. You want to be the very best that no one ever was (cheesy, I know).
That’s how I felt. That’s how happy food and the world of culinary arts have made me.
And to think for most of my life, I thought my passion was technology and computers and all the nerdy stuff I used to do and read when I was younger… look at me now, writing this story. My story.
I always have a hard time opening up to people. I’m probably one of the most highly and strongly opinionated people you’ll ever meet, but holy shit does talking about myself give me the heebie-jeebies. How the fuck does that even work, right?
Okay, I’ll tell you.
On second thought, nah. I can’t be doing all the work here. You gotta be thinking too, you know.
It is now 6:20 AM where I am and I’m dead-ass tired — I’m only running on 2 hours of sleep. With all my current responsibilities in life and how I deal with bullshit, I’m sometimes convinced that part of me isn’t human. To be able to endure so much fuckery and still come out strong, and do everything I’m supposed to do in every role that I am to a lot of people.
Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m just smart.
Yeah, I’m totally claiming it now because it took me years to own up to being a person of intellect. Perhaps it’s my stupid high EQ that greatly contributed to that as it made me empathise with several flocks of dumbfucks in the past. Don’t worry, I’ve gotten rid of them. I’ll tell you about it next time if you wanna know more.
So, you know, my first writing gig was in June this year. They fired me 10 days later because they wanted their articles to sound as if it was written by a 3rd grader. What was written in there also sounded as if I should be grateful for being given the chance even though I didn’t have any experience in the field.
I was, okay. I’m always grateful. But fuck, was it really necessary to point that out? I didn’t even beg for them to hire me; I was just honest about not having any professional writing experience and they took a chance on me because I “had the best output” amongst all other prospects.
Anyway, it was 3 in the morning when I got that email from my boss, right after sending my EOD. I think I just stared at my laptop’s screen for a good 5 minutes, with a knot forming in my throat but not entirely sure if I wanted to cry or not. I didn’t know how I wanted to react — IF I wanted to react.
I messaged my mum asking if she was still up and she immediately called me. It only took a, “I think something happened. Tell me what’s up” from her to move me to tears. Ugly crying at its finest! I also look ugly as hell after I cry l-o-l.
I told her everything that was said in the email. She cheered me up and told me I should never question my abilities. As long as I know I’ve done everything in my power to deliver a quality end result, I shouldn’t let things like this bother me. She’s right; she has a point. But the person we’re talking about here — my (previous) boss — is also the one who would sing my praises. Every. Fucking. Workday when I finish a supposed 2500-word article with close to or over 4000.
Do you see where I’m coming from now?
Call me an overachiever, but when I do something, I make sure I do it to the best of my abilities. That’s why I always ask; I always have questions to clarify tasks and shit. Because I don’t want to fuck up.
I crucify myself when I do that makes me hate myself in the process. But how the fuck does one change that?
