I've finally collected my IC. Now I've became more or less initiated into this nation of result-crazy queue-fetished overworked 'so that no one gets left behind' zombies. Whoops, was I being too truthful this time?
Interestingly, every time I see an IC, I start to picture it with a hole punched on the IC number. Morbid—I know—but I still can't erase memories of my grandaunt's IC and the matter-of-factly tone in which people like to say that it means so-and-so has died, signifying that he/she does not exist anymore, therefore the IC would be rendered useless.
How strange it seems that we need certificates and cards just to prove our very existence.
I've decided to chill-out tonight by reading Time magazines that I've borrowed from the library and reading Mrs Dalloway, since it has been sitting untouched and neglected by my bedside. Poor Mrs Dalloway.
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