Has your life turn out as planned?
- vladimir
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Has your life turn out as planned?
So, we all had expectations and plans when we left school. How did they turn out?
Last edited by vladimir on Wed Feb 17, 2016 7:03 pm, edited 1 time in total.
ירי ילדים והפצצת אזרחים דורש אומץ, כמו גם הטרדה מינית של עובדי ההוראה.
- violet
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I don't even remember what my expectations and plans were. I kind of just went with the flow for a very long time.
The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.
- Plutarch
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- Lucky Lucan
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I don't remember having any great master plan other than to have a laugh, get wasted, fuck loads etc.
Romantic Cambodia is dead and gone. It's with McKinley in the grave.
- springrain
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Turned out completely differently, but hopes as a teenager are always unrealistic. I'm very lucky as my hobby keeps me very, very busy, so a lot to be thankful for.
'History is a set of lies agreed upon.'
Attributed to Napoleon
Attributed to Napoleon
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- Starving Pelican
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- Phuket2006
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Jim Morrison
"has your life turned out the way you planned, enough to base a movie on?"
"has your life turned out the way you planned, enough to base a movie on?"
"We are turning into a nation of whimpering slaves to Fear—fear of war, fear of poverty, fear of random terrorism, or suddenly getting locked up in a military detention camp on vague charges of being a Terrorist sympathizer." HST
Fucking hell laddie. You need a four page plan to take a dump in the morning.Starving Pelican wrote:Yes, although I'm someone who obsesses over medium and long-term goals, and who feels lost if I don't have any. Though I never thought I'd be married. Then again what man thinks they'd ever be married.
- Starving Pelican
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At least I throw fun into the mix. I heard your uni 'graduation party' involved three pints and a post-pub walk to the off-licence for a lolly ice.scobienz wrote:Fucking hell laddie. You need a four page plan to take a dump in the morning.Starving Pelican wrote:Yes, although I'm someone who obsesses over medium and long-term goals, and who feels lost if I don't have any. Though I never thought I'd be married. Then again what man thinks they'd ever be married.
Wtf is a university graduation party little prince?
Where I came from we didn't bother with bollocks like that. I didn't attend my graduation ceremony. Bunch of cape wearing arse.
Where I came from we didn't bother with bollocks like that. I didn't attend my graduation ceremony. Bunch of cape wearing arse.
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Glad I wasn't the only one. My parents kind of hated me for it though, especially since I pulled the same thing in high school. Didn't want a picture myself with a shit eating grin, awkwardly holding a diploma while wearing that stupid monkey suit.
Last edited by LexusSchmexus on Wed Feb 17, 2016 8:59 pm, edited 1 time in total.
- Starving Pelican
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Not the ceremony itself, you idiot. The actual party that accompanies the knowledge that studies are over.scobienz wrote:Wtf is a university graduation party little prince?
Where I came from we didn't bother with bollocks like that. I didn't attend my graduation ceremony. Bunch of cape wearing arse.
Edit: ah, I got it. Your not familiar with the party because noone wanted to invite Nigel no-fun!
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- LadyBoyLover
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^Lawyer Fight: Old Skool vs New SkoolStarving Pelican wrote:Not the ceremony itself, you idiot. The actual party that accompanies the knowledge that studies are over.scobienz wrote:Wtf is a university graduation party little prince?
Where I came from we didn't bother with bollocks like that. I didn't attend my graduation ceremony. Bunch of cape wearing arse.
Edit: ah, I got it. Your not familiar with the party because noone wanted to invite Nigel no-fun!
...
edit: forgot to quote
- Falcon Randwick
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My life did, in a fuzzy way after a decade of procrastination, come to resemble my early dreams to earn a life as a professional writer. When success in my aimed-for career did eventually arrive, it burned brightly if briefly, until my shooting star shot it's load too soon, yet for a decent couple of years everything seemed to come along too easy. By which I mean that, outside of the odd previous published magazine article here and there, the very first thing I ever seriously sat down to write, a radio serial, was picked up for national distribution by the very organisation to which I'd aimed it.
I'd been confident, naturally, that my work exhibited requisite quality with a story told from a unique perspective which I though might appeal to a particular target market, but never imagined how rapidly the train moved once set into motion. The elapsed time between when I initially sat at my new used word processor and the sparkling afternoon when contracts were signed to produce this twenty five episode radio serial amounted to only a few months. Suddenly I was a professional writer with a life sustained by substantial (within reason) regular cheques. Other writers who'd been struggling for years hated my guts.
Not long thereafter, my first book was published and it started flying off bookshop shelves, and out of my hand, signed, at gigs. Soon I was being invited to perform at writers festivals across Australia and getting laid by earnest literary type chicks across the country. Next my play, Blind, was published and I performed that sad horror tale in most major cities in the country; I actually made people cry for a living when I knocked that baby out - except in Sydney, fucking hard nuts to crack there. Not too long later my second book came out, my rep was now such that I was offered full time work in the arts industry, curating festival stages and co-ordinating confused ranks of performers. All sorts of goodies started flowing from that gig like you wouldn't believe. Those were the days, my friend, I thought they'd never end.
Then, in 2003, the genius idea came to me of writing a book from the cracked perspective of a gormless traveller, to be called The Unreliable Guide To Southeast Asia. Happily pocketing an advance from my publisher for a third volume in the same vein as my previous two works, I set off intending to entrench the solid reputation I'd worked so assiduously to achieve and, furthermore, to branch out into the blossoming genre of docudrama and travel fiction. Given my prolific output until that point the entire research trip shouldn't take longer than a couple of months, half a year at best, I'd reasoned, and I'd return home with two, maybe three, new works up my sleeve.
Thirteen years later, I finally returned to Australia to live. A grand total of zero completed written work not weighing down my suitcase. I'm still puzzling over when and where and why and how my creative writing spark died; I've searched the twisted back passages of my polluted brain but cannot find it anywhere. To be frank, I blame Khmer440...
I'd been confident, naturally, that my work exhibited requisite quality with a story told from a unique perspective which I though might appeal to a particular target market, but never imagined how rapidly the train moved once set into motion. The elapsed time between when I initially sat at my new used word processor and the sparkling afternoon when contracts were signed to produce this twenty five episode radio serial amounted to only a few months. Suddenly I was a professional writer with a life sustained by substantial (within reason) regular cheques. Other writers who'd been struggling for years hated my guts.
Not long thereafter, my first book was published and it started flying off bookshop shelves, and out of my hand, signed, at gigs. Soon I was being invited to perform at writers festivals across Australia and getting laid by earnest literary type chicks across the country. Next my play, Blind, was published and I performed that sad horror tale in most major cities in the country; I actually made people cry for a living when I knocked that baby out - except in Sydney, fucking hard nuts to crack there. Not too long later my second book came out, my rep was now such that I was offered full time work in the arts industry, curating festival stages and co-ordinating confused ranks of performers. All sorts of goodies started flowing from that gig like you wouldn't believe. Those were the days, my friend, I thought they'd never end.
Then, in 2003, the genius idea came to me of writing a book from the cracked perspective of a gormless traveller, to be called The Unreliable Guide To Southeast Asia. Happily pocketing an advance from my publisher for a third volume in the same vein as my previous two works, I set off intending to entrench the solid reputation I'd worked so assiduously to achieve and, furthermore, to branch out into the blossoming genre of docudrama and travel fiction. Given my prolific output until that point the entire research trip shouldn't take longer than a couple of months, half a year at best, I'd reasoned, and I'd return home with two, maybe three, new works up my sleeve.
Thirteen years later, I finally returned to Australia to live. A grand total of zero completed written work not weighing down my suitcase. I'm still puzzling over when and where and why and how my creative writing spark died; I've searched the twisted back passages of my polluted brain but cannot find it anywhere. To be frank, I blame Khmer440...
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