No matter how bohemian being a vagabond sounds, it doesn't get you paid.

Sometimes I wonder if incompetence runs through my blood. My ineptitude will be my biggest downfall; I attribute it to nerves. Or, to be precise, the lack of them.

It's troubling when we see how motivated we are in the beginning, only to cut back on progress and then bring everything to a grinding halt once we're either complacent or bored (or at most times, a mix of both).

Success spoils us. There's a possibility that it softens us to an extent whereby we simply cannot face failure without being able to pick ourselves up again. Undoubtedly, a lot of work and effort would've been put into being successful, but there's an incredibly short way to go between being the king of a mountain and being a king of a mountain of beans.

And let's be honest; success can only be reached if we can overcome the perennial short attention span and obligatory threshold for punishment.

Things taste sweeter when they come easy, no?

Yes.

Sadly, I've been drifting further into the camp of believing that hard work and effort takes us places, while being inundated with invitations to direct marketing plans telling me otherwise. However, I can see that the latter would probably involve just as much initiative as the former...which I'm unable to provide. Or it could be a biting unwillingness.

I also don't wish to impart any more pain upon my parents, because I'd like to have them go away in peace without me having to go to their graves (or in my Chinky case, their urns), wishing them to come back to life to spot me a dinner.

There is no subliminal message here; there's no epiphany to speak of. There's no new dawning realization of something that I didn't already know. There's no striking of Nirvana.

In a little under a week (depending on...you guessed it, the probability of success), I will possibly be struck free from the only bonds that I have ever been willing to become tied down to, towards a path of either corporate slavery, a lifelong commitment to the less-than-debonair civil service or simply biding my time on a beach, making money off selling bait and tackle.

And My Lord, despite how incredibly inviting, serene and surreal that last one sounded, I know that it won't lead me anywhere. After all, I didn't (over)spend six years on a business degree to help you fish.

Or did I?

I was never given a raw deal. But I'm about to give you one.