Come Tuesday, and I’ll be officially jobless for a good 3 1/2 months, however, I have to inform you that I was in London on holiday for the earlier 2 1/2 so technically, I’ve only been job hunting fervently for the past month. And for the past month, every time I send out a resume, I can feel beads of sweat running down my forehead. Evaporation, you come in so handy. To my credit, I have been under voluntarily house arrest since my return, primarily because it’s all about dollars and sense. It’s only wise to stay at home when you lack the funds. Word. Of course, in my world, house arrest is altogether another definition, as I have since been heading out at most four times a week, spending money from the contingency fund, and throwing the due dagger stare and frown at passengers that I suspect to be giving out potent farts that smelled of rotten cai po. For the love of Ali Baba, please seek help from a dietitian and meanwhile, kindly avoid public transportation, merci.
In other news, as I continue to be a verbal Zorro swashbuckling the various insensitive, intense and incessant remarks on being jobless from the mum, she was generous enough to sponsor me a fancy pair of footwear from Camper for the cousin’s wedding. Woot! My I-love-you-and-sometimes-I-hate-you-but-most-of-the-time-I-love-you relationship with her. And, and, and!, I. Dig. My. Brogues.
I have great expectations on happiness but they are often far-fetched and a total misfit on planet earth. We all know – and I speak for people with a distinguished IQ – that if your expectations are met, you get greeted by euphoria (almost) daily, but if the only direction the expectations are flooding down towards is south, then with great expectations comes misery, disappointment, frustration, and you catch my drift. Hence, I shall narrow down my ever widening spectrum of expectations on happiness, which needs a thorough deal of editing, because I am far too greedy and unrealistic to be truly happy. And it begins now.
Somehow this short, ambiguous and introspective entry has left me craving for three servings of pearls in my milk tea and so it shall be.
Hello. This is my 5327th attempt at trying to resurrect my love for blogging. Hopefully, this time, I succeed, preferably with honours. It’s good to have an archive of your daily happenings, like the colleague that you love to stab, the unattainable neighbour that you wish you could procreate with, the recent pièce de résistance that you’ve created that you can shamelessly plug over and over, the friend’s friend who does not shave her underarms, the unaffordable crib that you’ll cough out your kidney et al, because when you are a 62 year-old grumpy retiree, you’ll probably have a hard time recollecting the fond memories of pre-2010, so. That, and also my memory has been quite a sift of late, plus all this big pre-3-0 jitters is really getting to me, thus, I shall push myself to start documenting my so-called life religiously. 3-0, I am not worthy.
Sidenote: Dear procrastination, I can do without you. Go. Away. Now. Pretty. Please. You. Are. Such. A. Bad. Influence. You know I love you still but please. Go. Away.