The Epitome of Failure...

I am, the Epitome of Failure. Or at least that's what I like to believe. I am however as much I want to deny it, much less of a failure than I put myself out to be. Tho in some ways, I doubt my own definitions.

The past few months have been a trying time for me as I battled a dead-end job in a seemingly dead-end industry in a dead-end country where people are more concerned about their own selfish ends instead of giving up their seats for the pregnant (see post below).

The latest thing to hit me is my depressive need to hurl myself further down the destructive path. It just doesn't make sense!

I have a home. No doubt I still live alone, but I have a roof over my head. Rent free! I have a new car. I'm paying for it, but it's new and it's nice! And it's mine! I have a job. It sucks balls, and it pays less than peanuts, but it's still a job. And I still get paid! I have friends. Not your dua-kupang fair-skinned (and fair-weathered) variety, but those who stick around to listen to you bitch about how sad your life is and how you are an epitome of failure night after night when they should be home shagging their wives/girlfriends/pets (hey, it's a politically correct society we live in).

I have a supportive family who calls me up when I'm out with my friends having a wild time to ask if I had dinner and if I am taking my vitamins. I love my family. Heck, I even have a friend who randomly messages me in the morning to wish me a good day! How many people have a friend like that?!?!?

I need to seriously redefine my life. I am definitely NOT the epitome of failure...