Like this:

This is not so much about money, but more to the cost of living and breathing and on the whole, putting up with two years (thus far and two more to go) in a mediocre, half-assed college. Given that when mentioned in conversations, the word TARC brings to face a similar expression as a garbage truck; the blasted place has some quirky, refreshing aspects, to wit, I will soon elaborate.

The cost of living in TARC:

Cost the First. Playing the reject card. This is not a new experience since I have been doing this all my learning life. However, in school there were very few group projects and no breaks in between classes, so there was really no need to socialise so much. Heck, you didn’t need friends if you could watch your own back, right? Maybe then, but in TARC?

Not bloody likely. My expectations have been low for the past two years. From the first semester, I played the expendable card well. I joined different groups for different projects, as opposed to others, who had, within the first two weeks, formed fragile alliances. Luckily, the mainly Chinese speaking members took solace in the fact that I was aware of my  position. Hence, most appointed an unofficial interpreter who would be present in group discussions. Here, my brain saved me, as I did help them bag fair scores. By the second semester, there were some projects where more creative control was put in students’ hands. When I stupidly assumed I would retain at least half of the same groups, one after another apologetically told me to shove off (here I REALLY hold no grudge) as they were doing their projects in Mandarin. This language I have the first ten numbers, body anatomy and choice swear words down, the usual shit. So this time I was really useless. Another group, fairly successful, I must say, had rejected a male member, perhaps for his inherent ability to say the wrong things at the wrong time (which could be , like, ‘uncool’) or his apparently wide-eyed, childlike exterior.

I also had the good fortune to receive a subsequent reject of the same group. This time a female who I detested as much as they did. My good fortune continued in a similar pattern, until, miracle of miracles, I actually belonged to a stable group by the start of my second year (and fourth sem). Needless to say, I had not had fun in quite a while and this provided fresh respite.

This muhibbah ensemble consisted of two boys ( Chinese and Malay) and two girls (Indian and Pasembor). One of the members claims to have left said group on own accord, but I highly doubt that took place without some internal encouragement. This gathering lasted one semester and a bit before and combination of personal and professional problems threatened to break it. We have also had another reject (so blasely rejected I actually felt a tinge of compassion) from that group but only for a project last semester. See the pattern? The Year 1 feeling has never actually left me.

Since then, the best I can say is that it has been an on-off thing. I am now in my last diploma sem, the sixth. Two members are now (bless them) in the throes of young love and understandably, have new areas of concentration. As I face the last semester before most of the class will not continue to advanced diploma, I pause and ponder, How would it feel to be a reject of rejects?