Singapore Dividend Collector

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Singapore Dividend Collector

Evening all. I trust you are well. I just realized that it’s been ages since I wrote My Story 4 which tells the story of an inexplicable guy referred to only as ‘Mr X’. Today’s post includes an amazing fragment of my entire life. It’s an endearing glimpse into my early twenties when life place coiled upwards before me as an unlimited spiral staircase. An encounter is involved because of it with a guy called Manuel, a Portuguese pickup truck driver. My attitude pulsated with the decision of adventure no destination was off limits.

In reality, I didn’t care and attention where I journeyed to as long as I was on the move and never too far from a container of booze and someone to share it with. The entire year was 2004 and I used to be fresh out of college or university. Looking back I lacked the maturity needed for regular employment and instead saw myself as some sort of beatnik/hippie/punk rebel, roaming the streets looking for whatever action I could find. A paperback duplicate of Albert Camus’ The Stranger or Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums pooped from the back pocket of my jeans. Please, note by 12 I needed never opened an investment book.

  • The description of the transaction
  • Deutsche Bank or investment company (DB FX)
  • 8 years back from North Carolina
  • Sharing of costs and risks with partners

It was like I had developed placed some kind of unconscious restraining order on books linked to money. In bookshops I relocated towards classics and politics sections quickly, bypassing self-improvement and investing as though they were leprous. My hair was long, curly, unkempt and a Drum Halfzware Shag cigarette hung perpetually from the side of my mouth. In short, I used to be young, carefree, impulsive, and ready to have fun wherever and whenever.

The big bad world of stocks and shares, bonds, saving, valuable metals and ETFs were as alien if you ask me as dark variety act would be a far right demonstration. Inspired by Kerouac’s book On the highway, two friends and I went on a trip of discovery to Poland. The program was to meet in Amsterdam and then hitch our way east to Krakow.

None of us knew a great deal about Poland or the encompassing area, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was we would be jointly on the highway, slumming it, living it. It might be a memory to consider with us into the future, a snapshot with time. In some faraway future, we would meet in a sleepy pub perched on the rock overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

What do transpire on that epic trip would take 100,000 words to remember, and I for one know that the common attention span of the blogger is significantly less than this. Thus, in the soul of conciseness, I’ll boil it down somewhat. 1. I journeyed to Amsterdam, by itself, week on the couch in a club and stayed for just one. 2. My two friends came and we partied liked crazed warlocks for a few days.

All matter is only energy condensed to a slow vibration. That people are one awareness experiencing itself subjectively. As I said earlier, our concentrate was left-field at this time somewhat. Chat often took a philosophical turn. 4. We hitched a good start with a Transit truck full of Moroccan builders to the advantage of the Amsterdam. 5. We got picked up by an extravagant sportscar. While traveling, it transpired the driver was the editor of the Dutch Mixmag music newspaper.

He dumped us out out in the middle of nowhere and we slept in a forest. 6. A pickup truck was found by us stop and sought out a Polish pickup truck. 7. We found what we should though be a Polish truck (it has a ‘P’ sticker on the trunk), but it transpired ‘PL’ is in fact for Poland and ‘P’ is Portugal. 8. We made a decision to scrap Poland and go to Portugal instead. 9. The drivers of the pickup truck, Manuel, got us on-board his eighteen wheeler.

We spent the next 2 months on the road with Manuel, cooking food at the relative aspect of the street, get together cool truckers at truck stops, sleeping in the trailer with concrete piles and taking in heroic amounts of cheap red plonk. Now, here’s the offer. While we motored down the winding streets of the French countryside delivering concrete blocks to building sites, Manuel spoke incessantly about the need to save and make investments. Obviously, we hadn’t a clue what he was discussing and was more thinking about drinking and talking nonsense.