count the ways...

how do i survive as a young journalist in hong kong? let me count the ways...

From crying senseless on my first month, I started protesting. On my 14th month as a journalist,

I stretch my insecurity and refused to accept taunts from filthy mouths just because editors are feeling bored in the newsroom.

I drill my questions to the core, until public relation practitioners would call me a nuisance;

I smoke away frustrations from editors' cruelty, to the depth and breadth and height,
my lung would suffer when the ashtray is full .

I deliver lengthy stories before deadlines, to the level of everyday's most desperate page filling's need.

I entertain the most confusing story ideas from S&M demands in an asian city with no democracy to top official kissing panda' ass celebrating the 10th anniversary of Hong Kong's handover to China.

I walk across the city, visit ghettos, talk to the grass root class, listen to the deprived, old,weak and the marginalized. I write for their rights passionately while the government is slashing taxes of luxurious goods.

I devote into my job to live with a disgraceful pay almost equals to unemployment.

With my lost saints, I translate the most obscure knowledge when medical specialists failed to spell out in simple english.

I crave for respect, pitch controversial ideas, got knocked back and I start again.

I see people come and go from a constantly under-staffed newsroom. I search a reason for my existence.

I try to live like a normal 25-year-old but I'm really greying prematurely and suffer from insomnia.

I raged at ridiculous government policies and saddened by a society where justice is distorted by money and power.

I drink, I play, I sing, I dance, I google and I laugh.

I report, therefore I am.