Over the past three months, I have stared stress in the eye and battled toe-to-toe with it atop the highest of mountains, and in the deepest of abysses. This is due in no small part to the insane seven-day work week I've brought upon myself.
Essential highlights of the week include:
1. An 8.30-6.00 Monday to Friday job at NUS as an administrative assistant; this excludes the one-and-a-half hours of travel I have to endure to and from work;
2. Monotonous, mundane journeys on the packed buses and trains during peak hours; I have my iPod to thank for infusing this routine with song and dance;
3. Occasional private tuition lessons after work on weekdays, from 7.30-9.30pm;
4. Rather frequent meet-ups (and supper!) with my close friends after work and on weekends;
5. On Friday nights, weekly street soccer gatherings which help to energize my life;
6. Saturday morning tuition from 10-12pm at Khatib, followed by a short break, then tuition again from 6-8pm at Paya Lebar;
7. Saturday night EPL over at home, or at a friend's house, or with a beer and snacks at a bar;
8. A full Sunday's worth of tuition commencing at 9am and ending at 5pm with a two-hour lunch break in between;
9. A nice Sunday dinner with friends or family, followed by Sunday night EPL;
10. Refer to step ONE. Repeat process for three consecutive months.
Stress, I heart you. You've mashed me to a pulp and squeezed the last drop of juice from my withering core. All that's left are the inedible seeds of my demise. But the promise of rejuvenation and recovery springs forth from these very seeds you choose not to consume. Come april, these seeds shall have developed into the most beautiful of flowers and the sweetest of fruits. And I will be the happiest apple in the entire universe; an apple with wings, in preparation for the best month of my twenty-one years thus far. Stress, I heart you. But no more.