Ok, Milan Kundera, I am sorry to vandalise/besmirch/desecrate your opus of a similar-sounding name by ripping it off (almost) and using it as a heading for this blog entry. Blame my lack of creativity, or a surfeit of campiness that gets worse with advancing age.
So it's August. A few more days to come, and Singapore turns a grand old 45, and I will mark two years in this GLC I am working at. How time flies. I could still remember that frisson of excitement when I stepped into this almost swanky building for my first day of work. I thought of new vistas opening up on the career landscape, imbibing new knowledge and finally achieving something.
Alas, the verdure of youthful (deluded?) passion and (misplaced?) optimism is destined to weather into a wasteland of dead hopes and dashed dreams. So two years of disappointments have accrued with each passing day that's somewhere between Dante's different levels of Hell.
I suppose when you are scrapping rock bottom, the only way is to go up. And hopefully, I will get my wings when I get that piece of paper called a degree and worth a handy $14K come the next August.
Until then, leave me alone as I stagnate/sink/simmer in this unbearable idleness of being a nondescript, underachieving and brain-dead office worker.
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