Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Wet Dream

You slowly 
by button
by breath

and here 
I stand


to burst

Thursday, January 05, 2012

Stolen Moments

What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory – an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge
lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness and his,
the way he pushed me up against the fridge –
Now I get to feel his hands again, the kiss
that didn’t last, but sent some neural twin
flashing wildly through the cortex. Love’s
merciless, the way it travels in
and keeps emitting light. Beside the stove
we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers
on the table. And we still had hours.

By Kim Addonizio

Saturday, September 25, 2010

The Love Cook

Let me cook you some dinner.
Sit down and take off your shoes
and socks and in fact the rest
of your clothes, have a daiquiri,
turn on some music and dance
around the house, inside and out,
it’s night and the neighbors
are sleeping, those dolts, and
the stars are shining bright,
and I’ve got the burners lit
for you, you hungry thing.

By Ron Padgett
Taken from You Never Know

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Tuesday, August 10, 2010


The old woman,
flashed her middle finger skyward,
and it started to rain.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Poem 1 From Twenty Poems of Love

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant’s body digs in you
And makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.

I only was a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Oh the goblets of the breasts! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of thee pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad!

Body of a woman, I will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road.
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
And weariness follows, and the infinite ache.

Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)
(Translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin)

Sunday, May 17, 2009

The Revenant

I am the dog you put to sleep,
as you like to call the needle of oblivion,
come back to tell you this simple thing:
I never liked you – not one bit.

When I licked your face,
I thought of biting off your nose.
When I watched you toweling yourself dry,
I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap.

I resented the way you moved,
your lack of animal grace,
the way you would sit in a chair to eat,
a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand.

I would have run away,
but I was too weak, a trick you taught me
while I was learning to sit and heel,
and – greatest of insults – shake hands without a hand.

I admit the sight of the leash
would excite me
but only because it meant I was about
to smell things you had never touched.

You do not want to believe this,
but I have no reasons to lie.
I hated the car, the rubber toys,
disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives.

The jingling of my tags drove me mad.
You always scratched me in the wrong place.
All I ever wanted from you
was food and fresh water in my metal bowls.

While you slept, I watched you breathe
as the moon rose in the sky.
It took all of my strength
not to raise my head and howl.

Now I am free of the collar,
the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater,
the absurdity of your lawn,
and that is all you need to know about this place

expect what you already supposed
and are glad it did not happen sooner –
that everyone here can read and write,
the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.

By Billy Collins
Taken from The Trouble With Poetry

Saturday, March 07, 2009

Fishbones Dreaming

Fishbones lay in the smelly bin.
He was a head, a backbone and a tail.
Soon the cats would be in for him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was fat, and hot on a plate.
Beside green beans, with lemon juice
squeezed on him. And a man with a knife
and fork raised, about to eat him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was frozen in the freezer.
With lamb cutlets and minced beef and prawns.
Three month he was in there.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was squirming in a net,
with thousands of other fish, on the deck
of a boat. And the rain falling
Wasn’t wet enough to breathe in.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.

Back to when he was darting through the sea,
past crabs and jellyfish, and others
likes himself. Or surfacing to jump for flies
And feel the sun on his face.

He liked to be this way.
He dreamed hard to try and stay there.

By Matthew Sweeney


This is really a depressing poem. When I am dying on my deathbed, would I be also dreaming about my past?

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Take This Job And Shove It!

Deathbed Test

Imagine yourself on your deathbed. From that vantage point, look back at what you did for a living.

Was it worth it?

You got three options:

i) Keep your job and seethe.
ii) Keep it and stop seething.
iii) Switch.

Keeping it and seething is simplest. Chances are, you’re already doing this. It affords you the frisson of venting – without having to risk anything or move a muscle. The ready-made “lazy and afraid” career-management strategy is staying and seething.

Staying without seething requires effort: the inner workout of exercising optimism and patience, of finding silver linings when your impulse is to shout “Take this job and shove it!”

Switching is the most strenuous workout of all. It’s not just mentally and physically hard but also terrifying, as it means learning new skills and routines and agreeing to take orders from and get along with a new set of strangers.

Yet switching is also easy in at least one sense. If one keeps switching at the first sign of dissatisfaction, one need never learn resilience, patience, or endurance. One is never forced to find inner peace. Instead, one just escapes – perhaps to face the same problems again in the next workplace. In which case one is not stuck in a job, per se, but stuck on starting over – stuck more on discontent, on the idea of being stuck at work, than actually stuck at work.

Taken from Stuck: Why We Can’t (or Won’t) Move On by Anneli Rufus


Two things caught my attention when I was reading this particular section a few days ago. Firstly the question

“Was it worth it?”

What do I mean by that?

I like to see life as a constant struggle between gain and sacrifice. For example, are you willing to spend more time at work and thus sacrificing the time spend with your loved ones? When will you realize that it is no longer worth it? When you no longer have time for dinner with them? When you realized that you hardly know the person lying next to you? Or when your idea of keeping in touch with your friends is sending them sms during festival seasons such as Christmas Day?

What about your health? How do you know it is no longer worth it to work through the nights so that you are able to meet the deadline the next day? Sure, you are a responsible person. You have to answer to the management. You will not allow yourself to be perceived as someone who is inefficient, someone who is unable to take stress, in a nutshell - a weakling.

Yesterday I could not made up my mind between spending Valentine's Day with my wife and going back to office to clear my reports. After some thought, I apologized to her and explained that as a responsible officer, I need to meet the deadline given by the management. My wife turned around, looked into my eyes and said, “You are responsible for me too.” I was totally caught off guard by her comment and we spend a wonderful Valentine's Day together.

Secondly the author is right,

"If one keeps switching at the first sign of dissatisfaction, one need never learn resilience, patience, or endurance. One is never forced to find inner peace."

There is no running away from heavy workloads, bitchy bosses, backstabbing colleagues, demanding clients, irritating emails/phone calls, etc. So what are you going to do about them? Trying to run away from your problems is like assuming that if you run away today, you will be problem-free for the rest of your life.

But guess who created all these problems? You and me, who else? We just can’t stop creating problems. World peace is an illusion. Go ask the politicians.

So what is the solution? According to the author, we have to find our inner peace. But the definition of inner peace is very subjective. What constitute as inner peace for a serial killer is very different from my barber, I hope.

Before Death comes knocking on my door, I am going to do as much as I can to make my life worthwhile. And when I am on my deathbed, I can proudly look back and says, “It was all worth it.”

Sunday, December 28, 2008


Timing’s everything. The vapor rises
high in the sky, tossing to and fro,
then freezes, suddenly, and crystallizes
into a perfect flake of miraculous snow.
For countless miles, drifting east above
the world, whirling about in a swirling free-
for-all, appearing aimless, just like love,
but sensing, seeking out, its destiny.
Falling to where the two young skaters stand,
hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips
itself about to ever-so-gently land,
a miracle, across her unkissed lips:
as he blocks the wind raging from the south,
leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.

William Baer

Thursday, November 13, 2008

And This Too Shall Pass

One day King Solomon decided to humble Benaiah ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, "Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it."

"If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty," replied Benaiah, "I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?"

"It has magic powers," answered the king. "If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy." King Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility.

Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of he poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day's wares on a shabby carpet. "Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?" asked Benaiah.

He watched the grandfather take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.

That night the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity. "Well, my friend," said King Solomon, "have you found what I sent you after?" All the ministers laughed and King Solomon himself smiled.

To everyone's surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, "Here it is, your majesty!" As soon as King Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: _gimel, zayin, yud_, which began the words "_Gam zeh ya'avor_" -- "This too shall pass."

At that moment King Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905 - 2004)


Hang on to your life, or whatever that is left.

From June to October this year, 5 officers from my department have either resigned or being transferred out. A few days ago, 2 more officers have tendered their resignation. In all, more than 40% of the original strength has left without any replacement. The management has been asking the remaining officers to hang on and assured us that help is on its way. Unfortunately, they told us the same thing back in June.

Out of frustration, I made the above poster this morning and pinned it on my workstation. I am not sure what the management will think of it but I really don’t give a damn. I am quite sick of those feel-good posters such as ‘Be Positive’, ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy!’ blah, blah, blah.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

The Listeners

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grass
Of the forest's ferny floor;
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only a host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

By Walter De La Mare (1873 - 1956)

Tuesday, June 10, 2008


Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot’s in the door.

By Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963)


One of the thing I like about poetry is that it is highly adaptable. Regardless of the poem's intended meaning, the reader is free to associate it with his/her own experiences. I am not referring to poems that fail to communicate to its readers, because interpretation is quite different from association.

To illustrate my point, whenever I read the poem “Mushrooms” by Sylvia Plath, it never fails to remind me of pimples. I can clearly visualize them as pea-sized aliens landing on my nose and with their chipmunk voice demanding to see the leader of the new-found land. To save my face, literally, I declare an all-out war and start popping them like nobody’s business. To my horror, they start spreading across my face; filling up any available pores and to this day, the battle rages on.

I suspect one of the reasons for this weird association is because I first read this poem when I was a teenager, and lines like “The small grains make room”, “Shoulder through holes.”, “So many of us!”, etc doesn’t help either.

Some of you might associate the word “mushroom” with food, while others might associate it with something naughty. The process can be quite spontaneous. Ask someone to complete the statement “Mouse eat …” and most likely they will tell you “cheese”. Followed by “Goat eat …” and “grass” will comes to mind. Now ask him/she “Cow drink …” and most people will tell you “milk”.

Sunday, June 01, 2008

Are You Feeling Burnt Out?

Recently I attended an event “Keep The Fire Burning: A Symposium For Professional Caregivers” organized by Institute of Mental Health (IMH). It was also a joint celebration of the 2nd Social Workers’ Day and IMH’s 80th Anniversary. The event involved group discussions and presentations by IMH’s Psychologist and Medical Social Worker (MSW). Overall it was a fruitful day, especially the presentation “Keeping The Temperature In Check: Balancing Your Multi-Faceted Professional Role In Mental Health” by Senior MSW Mr. Terence Yow.

Throughout the presentation, I have a strange feeling that it was prepared with me in mind. Let’s see what are the signs that indicate that you are feeling burnt out.

1) Frequently stressed and exhausted.
[Let’s see, more white hairs, dozing off during meetings, etc. Ticked.]

2) Dreading to go to work.
[Used to reach my office at 8.30 am sharp, then 8.45 am, 9 am, 9.15 am ... you get the picture. Ticked.]

3) Thinking about career change.
[Have been updating my resume on a monthly basis. Ticked.]

4) Neglecting other parts of life i.e. family, friends, hobbies …
[I’ve closed my online poetry forum recently. And when was the last time I have coffee with my friends? 2007? Ticked.]

5) No time to catch your breath at work.
[Catch a breath at work? More like catching a cold. Ticked.]

6) Losing sight why you chose this job/career.
[Under the heading "Occupation" I have started to declare myself as an "Applications Processing Machine". Beep beep. Ticked.]

7) No time to develop interests and hobbies.
[Unless you consider writing social reports as a hobby. Ticked]

8) Often feeling exhausted.
[Please refer to the 1st point. Ticked.]

9) Spending more and more time at work.
[Let’s see, although officially my working hours are from Monday to Friday, 8.30 am to 6 pm. I usually leave office at 7 – 8 pm and spend most of the Saturdays back in the office working. Never trust that HR guy during the interview. Ticked.]

10) Often bringing work home.
[Ha Ha, better than bringing woman home right? Just kidding dear, er dear? Darling? Honey? Ticked]

Okay, it is official. I am burnt out. Time to register myself as a missing person.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

On Monsieur’s Departure

I grieve, and dare not show my Discontent;
I love, and yet am forc’d to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate:
            I am, and not; I freez, and yet am burn’d,
            Since from my Self another Self I turn’d.

My Care is like my Shadow in the Sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth make me rue it.
His too familiar Care doth make me rue it.
            No means I find to ridd him from my Breast,
            Till by the End of things it be supprest.

Some gentler Passion slide into my Mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting Snow;
Or be more cruel love, and so be kind;
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
            Or let me Live with some more sweet content,
            Or Die, and so forget what Love e’re meant.

By Queen Elizabeth I (1533 – 1603)

Monday, April 14, 2008

Protagoras’s Wager

Protagoras had a pupil named Eulathus, who arranged to take Protagora’s course in rhetoric and sophistry, a kind of law school, for partial tuition. So sure was Protagoras of his abilities as a teacher that he told Eulathus he did not have to pay the balance until Eulathus won his first court case. In fact, Protagoras guaranteed that Eulathus would win his first case.

Time dragged on and Eulathus neither paid up nor argued any cases in court. Not only was Protagoras out the money, he looked bad to his students and to other Sophists. After all, if winning is what counts, and if appearance is reality, and if the pupil can outmaneuver the old master, why should anyone continue to pay his high fees? Protagoras was compelled to take actions.

Confronting Eulathus (probably in a public place where he could use his crowd-pleasing skills), Protagoras demanded payment in the form of this dilemma: “Eulathus, you might as well pay me, since I am going to sue you for the rest of the tuition. If I win in court, the court will rule that you owe me money; if I lose in court, you will have won your first case, and you will owe me the money. Either I win in court or I lose, you owe me the money.”

Protagoras, alas, was a good teacher, and Eulathus was ready for him. He shot back with a counter dilemma: “No, sir, you have it backwards. If you defeat me in court, then I have lost my first case and so do not owe the money; if I defeat you, the court will rule that I do not owe you the money. Either I defeat you or you defeat me. In either case, I do not owe you the money.” 


Ouch! Poor Protagoras.  I wonder how we can apply this wisdom in our daily lives? Hmm.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008


In the house
of Mr and Mrs Spouse
he and she
would watch teevee
and never a word
between them spoken
unit the day
the set was broken.

Then 'How do you do?'
said he to she
'I don't believe
that we've met yet.
Spouse is my name.
What's yours?' he asked.

'Why, mine's the same!'
said she to he,
'Do you suppose that we could be - ?'

But the set came suddenly right about,
and so they never did find out.

By Eve Merriam (1916 - 1992)


This poem describes exactly what my wife and I are currently going through. We love watching TV like Boston Legal, Taiwan political news, Fearless Planet, etc. Anything that is more interesting than our local productions deserve our full attention. Unfortunately, we are spending lesser and lesser time communicating with each other.

Another major issue is the TV remote control. We believe that whoever controls it, is the master/mistress of the house. It is a fact - this harmless looking thing is actually a symbol of power. Whoever holds it decides what kind of programs the other party has to watch for the next 4 – 5 hours. With the TV remote control firmly in her hand, that means no more History Channel, no more Dogfights, etc, but programs about shoes, shopping, handbags, fashion, etc.

Although it is frustrating, but there is really no easy solution to our problem. I wonder if the nearby Family Service Centre is willing to take my case, “My wife deprived me of my freedom by holding on to the TV remote control. I want you to get it back from her.” Hmm.

But maybe what we really need is spending quality time with each other, you know like watching a movie, going to the library or maybe shopping for a bigger TV. Ya, I like the idea of having of a bigger TV.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Feeling Horny My Fellow Singaporeans?

I first came to know about the existence of “Best of Singapore Erotica” during a reading session held at BooksActually, a lovely bookshop, a few months back. Mr. Hari Kumar, one of the featured authors was there and he read an excerpt from his story, “Night At Passion Touch”. I am not sure about the rest of the audience but being a sensitive person I felt horny after his reading. No, not horny for him but horny for more erotic stories by local writers. Unfortunately BooksActually does not carry the title or I would have bought a copy on the spot.

Well I bought a copy last week and it was sensational! Some of the stories are totally wicked! Of course there are a couple of boring stuff but most of them are thought-provoking and make great bedtime stories for your spouse.

Allow me to quote from the book, according to Didier Bernardin, owner of Crazy Horse Saloon: “If there’s more art and mind, then it’s erotic; if there’s no mind and no art, then it’s pornography.” I am not sure if I understand exactly what he means by that, but here's my take: “If you dare to show it to your mother-in-law, it is art, if not, better read it behind closed doors because most likely it is pornography.”

So here are some excerpts from this amazing book. And by the way if you are below 18, please stop reading. As for the rest, get ready for some hot chili crabs, Singapore style.

Chloe, the 129-year-old, life-size nude painting of a Parisian nymph painted by Jules Lesebvre.

The Good Girl by Alice Lee Am

“She saved her thin cotton bras with their almost nonexistent support for Mr Lim’s PE class and she wore them under a white PE T-shirt that was too tight for her and barely contained her large, round breasts. Her mother had bought her a bigger, looser T-shirt that she hid. She was pleased with the winning combination of tight shirt and thin bra. Her erect nipples stood out and she was sure Mr Lim would want to take her nipples in his mouth, one at a time, and slowly lick and suck them. How could any man not want her nipples?”

Clean Sex by Ricky Low

“She was now down on her knees with a wet rag in her hand, but before she began scrubbing, she looked up and flashed me another quick smile. She then commenced with the cleaning. She swabbed the rag against the floor in small circles, her ass and tits rotating in syncopated rhythms to this entrancing motion.”

Night At Passion Touch by Hari Kumar

“She looked at me but said nothing. She hugged me tight and continued rubbing her body on mine. Her breath came hot on my lips. I could catch the whiff of Fisherman’s Friend mints, apple and cinnamon, I guess. Her hair fell around my face like a black curtain. My whole body tingled with sensations never felt before. Primal moans rose in my throat. Down below, I was hard as rock. Feeling my hardness, she asked breathlessly, “Do you want sex?”

Body Drafts by Rachel Loh

“Her eyes shut tightly, fingers squeezed into Narain’s shoulders, Michelle thrust herself on and around the fingers until, within maybe twenty seconds, she came.”

An MRT Chronicle by Weston Sun Wensheng

“With a gentle cough, the office girl slid further down her seat while still clutching tightly to her handbag and envelope. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, she spread her legs wide open. At this, it seemed like Oily Man stopped breathing.”

Well there are many more, too troublesome to post them here. So what are you guys waiting for, go grab one before some pricks from the government decided to ban this book! And don’t forget to get one copy for your mother-in-law, if you dare!


According to a recent study conducted by our beloved National University of Singapore (NUS), shopping can stave off dementia for those aged 55 years and above! It seems that productive activities allow the brain to be more stimulated.

What about those who don’t like shopping?!!! Well, besides shopping, other activities such as preparing meals, reading and listening to music, can too help reduce the risk of getting dementia by as much as 60 percent. Now that’s better.

Although I am no professor or expert in dementia but I strongly believe that reading erotic materials will also help to improve our quality of life and brain functions. Maybe I should conduct a study on this, who knows I might win a prestigious international award too.

So who want to provide me with the erotic, err research materials?

Tuesday, June 12, 2007


I was feeling pretty religious
standing on the bridge in my winter coat
looking down at the gray water:
the sharp little waves dusted with snow,
fish in their tin armor.

That’s what I like about disappointment:
the way it slows you down,
when the querulous insistent chatter of desire
....................... goes dead calm

and the minor roadside flowers
pronounce their quiet colors,
and the red dirt of the hillside glows.

She played the flute, he played the fiddle
and the moon came up over the barn.
Then he didn’t get the job, -
or her father died before she told him
....................... that one, most important thing –

and everything got still.

It was February or October
It was July
I remember it so clear
You don’t have to pursue anything ever again
It’s over
You’re free
You’re unemployed

You just have to stand there
looking out on the water
in your trench coat of solitude
with your scarf of resignation
..................... lifting in the wind.

Tony Hoagland
Taken from What Narcissism Means to Me

Image taken from


It took me a few days to accept the fact that I am finally employed. I’ve lost count on the numbers of resumes and applications forms I’ve send out over the past 427 days just to face rejection after rejection. They were like nails, brutally forced and twisted into my body with bare hands. I fought hard to stay positive, but it was not easy especially my saving was running low.

Let’s be honest, it sucks to be unemployed. And as a student of Psychology I am well aware of its negative effects. It sucks even more when it strips your self-esteem and self-confidence layer by layer day after day. That is when you start feeling depress, anxious and naked. It also doesn’t help when your friends and family members, out of good intention, advised you not to be too choosy and just pick ANY job that is available. Yah right, jobs grow on trees like apple, so what are you waiting for, quick get a ladder.

Sad but true, work provides an important context for social interaction and to a certain degree gives one a sense of identity; it positions us in the social structure. For example, when you introduce yourself to a stranger in a social function, it is common to talk about one’s job. Work connects people and is much more interesting than discussing the weather and income tax.

According to Warr (1987) loss of income is usually the most harmful effect. I totally agree with him. If I am a billionaire, frankly I don’t mind being unemployed. I might feel sad when they rejected my applications but I will soon get over it once I bought over those companies and fired the people responsible for rejecting my applications.

That would be so cool.