“I want to work here for two years tops.
To work smart, and well, and rise up a rank, maybe two, before I leave.
To leave a healthy mark, on colleagues and bosses alike.
Then I’ll make a move.
My think-tank alongside my peers is panning out as brilliantly as we thought it would.
We’ll keep feeding it, and it’ll keep feeding us back.
We’re brilliant minds. With healthy financial backing. We’ll never know la pauvrete.
Settling down? Whatever for. That’s tertiary. Money first. Progression first. Doing well first.
Girlfriend? Well, she knows where I am. We talk. She’s not a dummy. She knows she’s hardly a priority right now. Later, she’ll be. Not now”.
“I’m done with university. I work just because it’s moral to.
To have money for the salon and to buy good clothes, shoes and bags.
To look as good as my best friend.
Tell you what though, he treats me well.
My money’s mine. His money’s ours.
Mum (silently) taught me that.
He works too much!
He’s with friends all the time!
He has little-to-no time for me.
I’m nowhere in his plans today, nor tomorrow. Maybe a year or two. Who knows!
That’ll change tonight though”.
Baby, I’m late.
Brucey 