I just moved into my brother's house last Monday.
I mean, I moved into my brother's house yesterday. With house, I refer to a number of feet times a number of feet square space with neither people to talk to nor a television to lay my eyes on. Or anything that's usually used to describe what home is.
There was a cyber cafe down there; still operating using the windows XP service pack two on a fifteen inch cathode ray tube monitor.Vintage and pathetic at it's best.
So I manage to get myself an interview today. A writer post for quite an established company. Writing for them means I'm writing for the likes of dato-dato and tan sri's of Malaysia.
Amazing, ain't it?
There was eight person in the company's lounge. Three of them were there for their second phase of the interview which pretty much concluded that they already passed the first phase of the interview; writing test.
Among the eight were a journalism graduate, Melbourne International College Journalism's head of program, a Karam Singh Walia look-alike psycho, a total American's accent blonde and a sixty years old granny who barely see a fucking letter.
Now that I'm breathing the air of unemployment, fuck the future!