The Intern and the Day Off (Already?!)

Because we all ugly-sleep, and there’s no shame in that

So, the intern is staying home today. Sinking blissfully in soft, warm blankets, listening to the rain fall.

Today, the intern is not going to work.

In fact…Nobody is.

Because there’s a huge storm threatening the country.

The intern is caught in a moral dilemma: wishing the storm would last longer so that I— she, I mean she—could stay in bed for a few more days, or wishing the storm would go away and leave the good people of this country alone.

The intern sighs. It’s hard being an intern sometimes.

In the end, the storm reaches a critical point for only 2 days.

And come the third day, the intern begrudgingly sets her alarm clock again.

Note: You can read the previous part of my ‘The Intern’ series here! (I swear it’s longer than this one lol)

The Intern Has Lunch

mean girls
Still from: Mean Girls

Today, before lunchtime, I had already gotten through the day’s work (because in spite of everything, I am someone who must be the best at everything I do because else, what’s the point really). But seeing, seeing as how I AM IN AN OPEN OFFICE. OPEN OFFICE.


Ahem, yes. So, seeing as how I am in an open office, I couldn’t really be caught slacking by the secretary who was watching youtube videos or by Mrs H., next to me, who was making home calls as she is wont to do. No, I was too new for that. So, I just…clicked. Click click.


Clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick. (Furious clicking to signify frustration, because I am a serious person).

Cliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick. And a good long one. (I don’t know what this one signifies, it just felt like a nice addition. Like something a serious office worker would do).

I involved myself wholeheartedly into the act of clicking as a way to ignore the clock that had struck 12 (the hour of sweet, sweet relief). Because everyone was still busy working hard at their personal lives. (At this point, the secretary, Mrs Emile, was whisper-shouting at her husband about pension plans and feeding the cat). Either way, I couldn’t be the first one to move to eat.

Click click

……………………………………………Click click

………………………………………………………………………………………..Click click

🎵Clicking away my lunch time🎵

Until, mercifully, the purple-clad angel that was Mrs. H, in all her extroverted splendour asked if I wasn’t going to have lunch. At which point I masterfully let out an innocent: “Oh, what, it’s lunch time already? :O”



“Working too hard, that’s why you didn’t notice!”




Yeah…So hard. But let it be known that should anyone wish to bring harm to my lady Mrs Hautemante, they would have to go through me first. It’s weird, but every time I start working somewhere, I always get irrationally attached to/protective of one particular individual. It’s weird too, because essentially, for all intents and purposes, I kindof hate people. The last time, it was the proofreader: an old, thin man, named something very French, like Jean-Pierre or something. Whom I only heard swear once when the Académie Française decided to mess a bunch of things up in order to simplify the language. I remember word-to-word what he said, too. (“Mais ces messieurs de l’Académie Française, excuse-moi pour le terme, mais ce sont des cons! Des cons ces messieurs-là!”) *

So, lunch was a lonely business.

Like, lonely lonely.

When I was mostly unemployed (How is one mostly unemployed, you ask?) I cherished silent lunches alone with my thoughts. But to be honest, today was a little sad. I didn’t know where exactly people took their lunches and everyone had gone out.

So I wandered out, sat alone and ate my cold sandwich that I had made in a rush that morning. Afterwards, I had about 40 minutes of lunch break left and there seemed to be nothing to do but contemplate the silence. I didn’t like it.

Every silence is different. This one was not self-imposed. It just happened and I was a little stuck inside of it.

I again had trouble with the whole time thing when the clock neared 4 (I was almost sobbing in relief ). At 3:58:49( I COUNTED) no one was making a move to leave. Strangely, I admired their determination to work, even at something I thought was  boring. I mean, really, office workers work harder than we give them cred—aaaaaaaaaand it’s 4 and everyone is gone.

Well, let it not be said that office workers are not efficient.

*”These gentlemen from the French Academy, excuse me for the language, but they are idiots/imbeciles! Imbeciles, these gentlemen!”

Note: It really wasn’t as bad or as lonely as it sounds~ I’m a grown adult lol. It’s just things that happen when you start somewhere or something new. So cheer up! (But I just had to use that photo, didn’t I 😛 )

The Intern and the Printer


I stapled my first document today. I feel like I have been initiated.

It felt like Mrs Q. was just going to go around all the departments, waving the printed paper around, hiking up the Big Boss’ desk like it was the Pride Rock and she was Rafiki.

And my stapled document was Simba and—Nyaaaaaaa tsigoyaaaa Mama gi ttttii babaaaaa

And okay, here’s the thing:

They’re hiring.

If I do well, it has been suggested (by all and then some more) that I could get a job.


I do not like the prospect of unemployment. Of no money in the bank. You could even say they are fairly coercive factors. But employment. As in a contract. As in: “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to mind these cuffs around your Time and Opportunities, would you?”. See, they can have the ‘now’. The now where my time and opportunities are just taking a cruise around the world. But to stake a claim on my maybes, where everything, where a lot lies…Nuuuuuhhhh.

On another note, the big boss makes dad jokes and speaks in exaggerated french, like a rushed Parisian (not uncommon in these parts). Today’s joke:

“You’re here early!” I was. “I was just sitting here to watch who would be late.” to which I replied okay. And to which he then laughed, giggled almost. “I’m joking, I’m joking.” he said.

Are you…are you looking for the joke? Because it’s right there. That was it. That was the joke. And you know what the most insane thing is? Everyone else gets it. Everyone knows he’s ‘joking’. Yeah. Apparently, it’s a bit of an honour to be joked with, too. Let’s just say, the big boss is really big. He’s pretty important in that kind of world. Some would even say the most important.

I also printed my first document today (so many firsts!). I’m a little put-off that Mrs Q. didn’t start quietly sniffling in the corner, occasionally dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, shaking her head at how they do grow up so fast, don’t they? Just yesterday I didn’t know her, and now look! Even printing things.

But guess what I printed.

No, really, guess.

Something so quintessentially office worker you could bottle it and sell it as a perfume (Eau De Printer No. 3)  and everyone would know what it smelled like.

An e-mail.

That’s what I printed. I don’t even know why they made me print it. I never used it later. (Lies, I doodled on the paper. I doodle on paper the way a dog pees on lampposts: it’s compulsive).

So, in good news today, I may or may not have found our Earth’s killers. Like, we can just tell hard-working scientists around the world to take it easy for now. Someone just call Green Peace and Nat Geo and show them the OBSCENE AMOUNTS OF PAPER WE USE.

But do you think office workers are contractually obligated to print things? And that somewhere, there’s a trembling earth-lover, quietly rebelling, getting nervous when they haven’t printed something in a while, afraid their co-workers will get suspicious?


Here, for your enjoyment:

Also, how am I ever going to be able to write something serious again after “I doodle on paper the way a dog pees on lampposts”?

The Intern’s First Day

Art by: Unknown Artist

I walked in, a proud journalist.

My glasses glinting with righteousness and truth like Clark Kent at the Daily Planet, knowing I’d saved the world a few times before entering the building.

JK. I walked in behind my placement coordinator who, 5 minutes previously, had to warn a girl on the lift/elevator to not crush me with her bag because I’m not very tall and not very existent. I wish I was lying.

I was introduced.

People asked what I did (Like me being an intern here wasn’t…telling enough?) They were a bit impressed when I said writer, sometimes. Like they’d not quite had that breed of human in their midst yet. I’m also into technology, I spurred on. That was not really received. It didn’t matter much. Everyone knew how to use Word and Facebook.

I was shown a desk with a desktop and those old clacky keyboards that still have massive buttons. But right beside it was a handsome, swiveling leather chair that supported your back divinely. It belonged to someone else, as it happens. Someone who was on vacation. Whose aforementioned vacay prompted the ‘need’ for an intern.

Ay, thanks for the job Mrs A. Now, will you please return and kick me out?

But let me tell you about the people I work with. All women, save for the big boss. My supervisor is a middle-aged woman. Fair-skinned, lightly dusted with freckles and with a pretty face. But people don’t seem to realise that because she’s kind and unassuming. Well, for the time being, let’s call her Mrs…Quatrd’aile. Because that just came off the top of my head.

And then Mrs H. Or Mrs Hautemante, if you will. She brings in the office chatter and liveliness. She’s constantly making home calls with the office phone. Today, she wore an all-pink dress. It was arresting.  She’s the kind of person you always wonder about how they got stuck in an office. But there’s probably regulation somewhere that says you need at least one lively/extroverted person in an office. Else nobody would want to work in one.

Then there’s the secretary Mrs…Emile? Greying, curly hair. Nice but not inclined to small talk (Thank God for small favours. Well…aside maybe from the big favour of actually getting the internship. Because as much as I’m complaining, this internship is still a ‘good’ thing. It brings in e x p e r i e n c e. If you do it in a fancy enough place, well…even  copy-pasting comes to count for something ).

It only occurred to me that I hated the work as the day ended at 4. Like, one moment I was all *Intense copy-pasting* and the next I genuinely remarked to myself: “Wow, I  actually hate this :)”

On the way home, I realised that I was actually going to have to go tomorrow as well.

And that was the exact moment when Ilah.exe stopped working.





The Soul-Sucking Journey of the Young Adult Internship

“If you’re going to sell your soul, might as well make sure it goes at a good price.”

So, I have run into an unavoidable entity of the modern young adult experience: the internship.

I didn’t run into it, either, so to speak. I sent a kind email. I’m lucky enough it’s a paid one. I’ve been an intern before, mind you. Wrote little articles for a newspaper (Mainly deaths, really. Traffic accidents. Thefts and the occasional make-up artist), and then another internship for a website. But this…this is different.

It prompted a thought I had never thought before:

“If you’re going to sell your soul, might as well make sure it goes at a good price.”

At least with the newspaper, there was something exciting about getting mail from the police division. Imagining thefts, murders, motives, family drama and all that inheritance hidden in vaults. Then writing about it, adding that hidden story in the spaces between the words, in invisible ink. Hoping someone would read the Sunday newspaper and find that piece of imagination in the insignificant miscellaneous section.

But this internship.

One does really understand why it’s a paid internship.

Usually, interns are the company mules. Doing all the odd jobs, the tiring shifts. Fetching coffee in the hopes of catching some experience and some semblance of a network in between revolving office doors.

But this internship?

I am well-fed. Well taken care of. People constantly ask if the workload is alright. They smile back at you.

But see, I have, so far, only been using two of my brain cells. One that stores information about how to copy, and the other on how to paste. I have decided to name them. One is called Anseline and the other Clemence. Or maybe Bob and Joe.

My pride (Yes, my pride, not me.) is indignant. Me, a journalism graduate (with not much desire to become a journalisty journalist), me, who wrote about petty thefts and make-up artists! Me who…has a blog? Yes, me. Stuck at a lovely desk, copying and pasting the whole day away. It feels like sometimes I copy and paste the minutes, too. And that, accidentally, the whole work day turns into a 16 hour one instead. Imagine copy-pasting the whole day. Then being asked if it’s too hard. Like, I used to program, Susan. Respectfully, and with thanks, I can copy-paste.

And that, is why they pay you for it.

If someone has a tonne of work to do, and they hire an intern, it’s because they usually can’t afford a regular worker. So you can bet, in those situations, that you won’t get paid. And that you will do all the work, one way or the other.

But someone who has the money to pay an intern…doesn’t really need an intern. From my experience, that is. They just need a few documents on their desk every now and then. Nothing too intensive.

As I am writing this, a stack of boxes containing ‘high quality’ paperclips made in china is staring at me. They even have one of those little claw machines (like a stapler) that removes the staples from documents. Gulp.

Office supplies, everywhere. Perforators. Binders. Staples.

Why are there office supplies everywhere?!

Holy C— I’m in an office.

Note: So this, I’m not sure if it’ll become a series (Although my notebook says otherwise). But I thought maybe it was time to touch up on the ‘Young Adult’ part of this blog. Something less whimsical. The style of this is much different from what I normally write. But as I explore my writing, I uncover the desire of trying new things.

Besides, I’ve always been pretty sarcastic. And for someone who so often writes about dreamy things, I’ve got a pretty dark sense of humour. For this particular kind of writing, I might actually look at the response. Usually, even if a series is not well-received, I’ll still post it.  But with this one, since the style and content are so different, it might make the blog look like it’s confused about what it wants to be. Ideally, I would argue that since both kinds of writing come from one and the same brain, that it’s not incompatible. But we’ll see.