So I've been sick. Again. I think it's the whole business of life that's making me sick. I'm just not in a very happy place at the moment (I sound like I'm in therapy... "oooh, I'm not in a good place at the moment"). I dunno.. I'm just not very healthy I guess. Life has taken its toll on me. I have to admit that I wasn't prepared for this. All my life, I've been pretty sheltered. Grew up in what I thought was a happy, normal environment, went to mission schools for 12 years, trooped to uni and had the time of my life... then I came back to reality. BOOM! Got struck down by the reality monster. It bites.

Suddenly, family problems, work problems and lurve problems snowballed into a huge avalanche that resulted in no less than 7 mcs (read: medical certificates) this year. One of them was for depression, another was for an obnoxiously high fever, yet another was for HFMD (read: hand foot and mouth disease). I'm clueless hey... what did I do man? And don't even start on the HFMD thing... and in case you're wondering, it is NOT a sexually transmitted disease... it affects babies and small children. Shuddup.

7mcs. And the year hasn't ended. This compared to none when I was in uni. NONE. In fact, I only remember being sick twice the whole 3 years I was in Perth. Either that or I was delirious most of the time... Growing up, I was sick at most once a year... my doctor asked me if I was unhappy with my job. He said, "Are you happy or not? You look very unhappy. If you're so unhappy, quit lah!". Dear Mr Doctor, you don't understand that I'm not Oxford/Yale/King's/Carnegie Mellon/Imperial/Harvard/Johns Hopkin/Wharton/Cambridge/LSE/Cornell (and dare I say, NUS) material. I don't have employers fighting to hire me. I am a humble mass communications graduate from a humble university in Perth, Western Australia. In case you think I'm ashamed of Murdoch, I am not. I love Murdoch. And I'm proud to be associated with it. But I don't have the luxury of being picky. So, Mr Doctor, the reason I'm not leaving is because I need experience. Because I told myself I would stay at least a year. Because I owe it to the people who chose to hire me in the first place.

But even Mr Doctor could tell I was unhappy.

This feels like a mid-life crisis. But if this is mid-life, does that mean I die at 48? Nah, don't get my hopes up :) Okay, joking (this is for people who think I'm suicidal and I assure you I am not. Seriously).

So ok, on to lighter things. Mr Doctor (as he's performing his diagnosis) asks "do you have a cough? Any cough? No? You sure no cough? How about runny nose? You have a runny nose?" No, Mr Doctor, I do not have a cough nor a runny nose. I just have a plain jane fever and I want to go home to rest. The next thing when I wake up - I have a runny nose. Day after, I developed a cough. I'm still coughing now.

Doctors are psychic. Mine's psycho.