Lonely Panget.

I’m going to try and actually write something on this blog…

…Because let’s face it, I’ve written fuck all since I moved to Hong Kong a year ago with the dream of turning my fancy master’s degree in journalism into any semblance of a career in the industry. I assumed that leaving Los Angeles as fast as I could swipe my father’s Mastercard (sorry, Dad) to buy a ticket over here was a shortcut to my goal of being a take-no-prisoners feature writer who traveled the world on the company dime, spent her free time getting 180-minute manipedis and didn’t put herself in debt to buy a pair of shoes. I didn’t want to be one of those people who had to work odd jobs to make rent or resigned themselves to half-heartedly working the management end of the family business.

I’m neither of those two. I guess I should be thankful that I’m at least not the latter, but it still doesn’t feel like a whole hell of a lot to be proud of.

The first three months I spent here as a professional job hunter were about as pleasant as getting dumped by a guy who tells you he has commitment issues but really thinks you’re too fat to settle down with. Every time I tried to ho myself out to a potential employer, they’d always kiss my ass for having “an impressive resume” and then a week or so later, abruptly put all that professional dick pulling to a halt and say, “You’re very talented, but we aren’t hiring right now/we’re looking for candidates with more experience/you don’t have a working visa/we need someone who also speaks Cantonese.”

Super thanks, bros.

Realizing that I wouldn’t stand a chance cruising by on my rapidly depleting life savings and sullenly feeding a terrible habit of binge drinking fueled by self-pity and the impulse control issues of a functional bipolar disorder, I decided to suck it up and start hooking. Just kidding. I started taking whatever work I could get, which, funnily enough, was equally as difficult as finding a job in media, thanks to my illegal immigrant status.

“But I have a master’s degree! Surely that qualifies me to answer your phones,” I said to the management of a fancy ass waxing salon in Central after being told I wasn’t what they were looking for. Two weeks later, they hired me to be their office temp.

The next four months of my life were spent working as a professional temp. After working as an office slave for the epilation extraordinaires, I was a booth bitch at an aviation security conference and a waitress for a catering company. Other than the cash I was handed after each job, the only thing else I can say I took away from both gigs were the phone numbers of older men. Some of them said they could offer me work, but did so with that creepy look that tells you they’re wondering what color panties you’re rockin’ under that dress. Needless to say, attempting to network with people you’re handing catalogues and canapes to proved to be about as useful as an asshole on my elbow. 

These days, I’m working full-time as a kindergarten teacher at an ESL learning center. I’ve got a work visa that says I can kick it professionally in the fragrant harbor for a year, which is awesome. Working with kids isn’t really something that fazes me that much either, since I’m the oldest of eight kids and this is pretty much like being a professional big sister. Of course, that’s speaking theoretically. My siblings are the coolest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of hanging with. Ever. Some of the brats that walk through the doors of my center would send Damien in “The Omen” and Rosemary’s baby running straight back into Satan’s nutsack. No joke. Don’t get me wrong, I do have great days at work. But a great day at an after-school center is a day when everyone behaves. A bad day, on the other hand, comes about much easier. Between racist students (the population of Filipinos working as domestic helpers in Hong Kong has my boss telling parents that I’m an American of Latino descent to avoid such racial slurs), children who act up by getting physically violent and kids who piss themselves in class, I can say with certainty that there are way more bad days in my line of work. I make less than half the salary of other ESL teachers I know. I spend my mornings trying to muster up the energy to drag my ass to work, during which I pray I have a long enough break to play a round of Bejeweled on the crapper. In the evenings, I come home to my super hot boyfriend and our cat and cook a nice meal (one of the few things I’m never too tired to do), and we watch a movie or TV show that he’s Torrentzed while I fantasize about getting my tubes tied.

So that’s my life. I feel like the poster girl for mediocrity. It sucks, but I’ve decided this year not to let my failures as a professional writer prevent me from the act of writing. A close friend of mine told me that the only failed writers are the ones who don’t write. I’m going to attempt to follow that advice, if not for anything else than to keep myself from turning into a sad, once-brilliant alcoholic who blacks out and eats cheeseburgers off their bathroom floor.

Peace, hookers.