Yey, it's payday! With almost twenty pesos in my wallet and a whole page of outstanding debt, I will probably savor the moment I write a positive entry into my personal spreadsheet. One measly positive entry among 25 negative ones. Such a shame for my highly specialized, totally useless overrated medical education. When I go out with my friends, I usually shun away from any conversation regarding salaries, investments and properties. We are at the same age, but they are paid a whole lot more. I had a conversation with a friend, an IT professional, last night and he was doing HTML, MySQL and Linux systems. I took those for my informatics elective in medical school. Give me a Linux PC and around 6 months, I can probably do what he can do. He owns a car, has a townhouse and goes to out-of-town trips twice a month. He leads a pretty comfortable life for a thirty-four-year old bachelor--a real one--and if I compare it with a doctor's salary, we will be having a comfortable life at 45, which every professional probably accomplish by the time they are 35.
We, meaning my classmates and I, have concluded this years ago: we are in the wrong profession. That is, if we really want to make loads of dough. It's a sad thought, and right now, we totally resigned to the fact and came to terms with our priorities; it isn't about the money anymore.
I never had my own bank account here in the country. There's no so much to put anyway. I had a huge problem before since I usually get checks as payment, save for those moonlighting hours which they usually give us cash. I soon figured out that I still have my old bank account which I co-signed with my mom. I opened this account when I was ten years old, but since I am a minor, I had to get my mom to co-sign for me. Those were the heydays of my artistic life. For four years. my mom coaxed me to join a lot of art contests and luckily, they found my works interesting. Actually, up to now, I have no idea how I won those art tilts. I stopped after doing it for 3 years: I was getting old and the art style is slowly getting inappropriate. The money is good back then. My ten-year old self holding an oil pastel makes more than me, at thirty, wielding a stet. The bittersweet irony of my mediocre, unaccomplised, irrelevant life.
Niow that I need to go pick up my check, I need to score some dough from my parents for fare money. More likely, I will be scurrying back home after procuring the cheques, so as to prevent hunger pangs from stinging my belly because I refuse to spend money for dinner. But honestly, I got used to these kind of hardships. These are just pebbles on the road; and I have faced boulders. I had the experience of being deprived of hope and how it consumed me--body and spirit. These petty challenges is just an affirmation of being alive.
It is not often about money anymore, it's about keeping your head above the water, and hoping that a wave is not in sight to bring you down again.
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