i woke up this morning because of a noisy phone call and landed myself a job as a receptionist (... so exciting ...) at a german firm located at raffles place. the distance is nothing when good money is involved. it also lasts only about 7 days with intervals in between - the intervals being the major pull factor here. the perfect job for the perfect sloth. so anyway, i trudged off to work, hitched a ride from my very reluctant mother who had actually just driven through the gates to our apartment, and set off to provide them with my expertise at handling miscellaneous receptionist tasks. righto. like drinking their milo and indulging in the wide variety of biscuits and what not in their pantry.
so seven days of enjoyment, or torture. whichever way you see it. or i see it.
whatever.
i never understood how i could put so much effort and emotion into writing letters for people who eventually never receive these works of art. i mean honestly, i read em over again and wonder wtf had gotten into me at the time. probably part of the reason why they never got sent. i'm flooded by unsent letters, in books, on notepads, even in my laptop. i know, i'm moonstruck as fuck.
time to hit the sack so i can endure 9 hours of doing very important nothings.