I know this thing starts out as a square sheet — a blend composite that consists of part PVC material and part polyester. Sounds really keen, huh? But I’d like to wham it now. I mean both of them. Blast them PVC cards!

 
I could have just gotten and hated one. But I didn’t. I got two. Two professional licenses, which means, it is hate, doubled. Ironic how a lot of the people around me now are dying to have one, and yet I’m saying these things. Fine, I understand the part of wanting to have a license. But trust me, it really is a fuss. Why do I hate having my licenses, you ask? Well, it’s because (1) I had to go to school for 18 long years just to be ‘qualified’ to have them; (2) I had to go through two effing board exams to have it, for me to have a “permission to practice” chemistry and college teaching; (3) it is a restricting entry — meaning I have to stay competent, and everything I do has to be regulated and morally correct, like it’s the techie counterpart of the WWJD (what would Jesus do) wrist band I once have.

 
My licenses used to be my boosts. They inspire me in many ways that even a Jedi couldn’t imagine. But now I feel like they’re weights chained on my feet as I drown in the vasty deep. Because everyday, as I do my job, the world is expecting too much from me. And most of the time, I chase after one motivation to another. They are like my guards. Or lifetime evaluation sheets. Or inanimate bosses. Suffocating.

 
Well yeah. Professional license. I got two. Lucky, you say? Maybe. Maybe not. Or maybe I just got the wrong ones. Sigh.