Exploiting Unemployment II

There are the nights that I lay in bed, picking out infinitesimal details about my life, subjecting myself to reruns regarding the way things've played out in times both recent and long-gone. Increasingly, I am beginning to realize that the frequency of such occurrences increases in direct proportion with the (seemingly ever-increasing) number of days that I spend in limbo, jobless and lackluster. Days spent searching for employment, spent waiting for replies and hence spent waiting - waiting ceaselessly - to rediscover my sense of self-confidence and purpose once again.

It is on nights like these that I find myself unscrewing (or uncorking, depending on the brand) the nearest malt whiskey bottle for round after round of double-shot pressure-dispersion. Alcohol doesn't dull the screams of Life as she rages outside the door, yelling and tearing her hair out in an effort to be let in. It merely plasters a silly grin on my face as I sit ensconced in my warm, cushy armchair, unsure as to why the fuck I haven't - or haven't managed to - opened that particular door yet.

The other day I had this fantastic dream. Or nightmare, if it falls under that classification - I really don't know what to make of it. Anyway, it begins with my dad expressing an immaculate level of disappointment at my inability to find myself a job. 'Come lah,' he says, 'I find lobang for you.' He brings me to a counter where a male receptionist sits, languishing in his post-lunch stupor. 'Pass me that pamphlet,' said Dad, 'the one with the Teo Chee Hean picture on it.' My memory falters here, although I imagine that he must've been crossing his arms as I read that pamphlet - typical Dad stance.

'But, eh,' I exclaim angrily, 'this one, sign on army lah! I don't want to sign on army, I told you already many times!'

'Times are bad what,' he replies, 'what else is there to do?'

I snap and yell at the top of my lungs, 'YOU GO SIGN ON LAH!'

I snap bolt upright and realize that I have just, at three in the morning, yelled at the top of my lungs. I remain unsure as to whether the appropriate response is to feel troubled or amused. I recommence my efforts at slumber.

That was five nights ago. Increasingly, I am becoming fearful of having that dream again. Being jobless, really sucks. That's about the gist of it, really.