Now what?

I'd admit that I feel hurt whenever my parents express incredulity at and inconfidence in my abilities to survive down a perceived non-conventional career path. So much so that I've continued to emanate the same festering indecisiveness and non-existent self-assurance I've carried with me throughout my formal schooling years. How sad. Sometimes I baffle myself. Much as I have known myself to have thoughts of a heretic, I've somehow (paradoxically) stuck to the rules of a conformist, perhaps more in a straggling fashion but still safe within the green area of what's it and only it. I don't like to think I'm another one of those obsequious denizens of Singapore, but I sure behave like one, even if my brain regularly carried out protestation in microscopic ways, such as not studying for little tests or not doing tutorials and such (both are ostentatious actions of pseudo-non-muggers, which I now look back on in disgrace). The farthest I have tested the boundaries, if of any worth to boast about, is perhaps when I took literature in JC (oh no, don't get me started on how I'll flunk my lit in As -__-). So there. I've existed (nominally, at least) as the characteristically Singaporean acquiescent student for fifteen years, and possibly continue on as a duteous and well-trained article of the celebrated workforce of Singapore. I'm reluctantly reminded of those old-school Ministry of Manpower posters that depict happy labourers lovin' it ...
(Yesh, I've been excessively employing hyperbolic expressions, but do allow me to wallow in my own piteous clay/mud hole for a few paragraphs more.)
(Or you can just stop here. This is a rant.)
My only lucid thought: I don't want to look back (say, fifty years later), and think, oh, so that's how I lived my life - like any other 69-year-old, I had worked 10-hours-a-day-5-days-a-week-45-years-a-lifetime. But then again, why do I have to have such aberrant ambitions? What's wrong with being ... ordinary? As far as I can see it'd only bring me good family, good dough, and a good round-the-world trip after I've retired. A patently nothing-goes-wrong path. But to me, even the paraphernalia (please, not related to paraphelia) associated with the mundane life scares me silly.
Why why why.
I can't comprehend my own thoughts. In fact, my post is going off in so many tangents I think I shall just stop here. Also that I've merely been repeating myself. Whatever that's up there is probably worth less than noisome carrion. Anyway, it'd do me no good to blog myself into a grandiloquently depressed mood just before I sleep.

An aside: I've settled (tentatively) for something that's arguably normal. Being a J-O-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X can hardly be considered a deviance from the norm, can it?

P.S I've scanned the entire post and found it incoherent and insubstantial. All the big words (all Graveyard Book's fault for filling my head with words to do with death and gloom) in there conveys nothing more than pomposity that invites mockery and disdain. No, I'm not requesting you to display the mentioned emotions. In fact, you should only feel apathy, or nothing at all. Rest assured this post will be taken down A.S.A.P ... until I've lightened up enough or when I've finally contorted myself into the mould of what I should be.