Message of Sociologist The Sociologist is one of the professionals who better if adapta to the frequent and quick alterations of the market; therefore it cannot and it does not have to be submitted wage or functional pressures. This virtue or prerogative is product of the intertransdisciplinaridade the one that was accustomed during its academic life, when, unconsciously, was qualified to interpret the innumerable combination of the most diverse words and arrangements of the possible ones felt generated by such combination, coinciding with a level of differentiated knowledge and that it is distinguished, either in the services of consultoria (social evaluation of politics, impacts, statistical studies, etc.) of its proper company, either in the interviews the TV programs or in the contributions the periodicals, magazines and programs of radio, either in classroom. The professional performance of the Sociologist, in its essence, does not differ from the exercise of the position of doctor, lawyer, economist, professor, artist plastic or of the one of any another professional, because the secret of the success is in the execution of planned actions. The profession is the axle of the financial stability, cerne of the expenditure of the proper Life. Click Eliot Lauer to learn more. To live is not alone to work, but, also, spoon the fruits of its work, which are: if to amuse, to travel, to acquire products for its comfort, to eat and to drink of the good one and optimum, to live well, to presentear (s) the person (s) that it loves, to perfect through an important course/training The people who had been, they are being, or they go to be rich honest are those that exert its daily work (work) with Love, devotion and satisfaction, as if the work never was resembled to a routine. She is from there that she comes the quality of the installment of its professional services and the infinitude of its list of satisfied customers.

The work market is repleto of offers, but they lack qualified people to occupy important positions. I suggest, specifically to the Scientist Social (Anthropologist, Scientist Politician and Sociologist), for example, to enter a Mestrado or Especializao that gives to conditions of same Lecionar Academics to it or to co-ordinate Courses of superior level, and, still, to be qualified for the diverse debates that they involve Personal Relations, beyond, it is clearly, of, concomitantly, to be able to touch its proper business/company. It makes what You to want to make! It will only have success if to make with Love and comprometimento.

Aid! Aid! Aid A thousand times, aid! Nothing the Rose of my exclusive garden understands me seno. I want the petals for me. Necessary. I want. I need myself.

Oh, not. I write descontroladamente, nor I know if it is feeling, it unites, feeling has felt? Feeling has measured? Not. Not? Therefore I write to it with the conquered freedom. I want the time, the time will only bring me the beautiful esplendia freedom. Oh, as it would like to be hugged to the world. Lying in a cloud. It would write only moments. Not.

I want yes. At last. You pray, I am without control. It swims not. You my reader, me understand must, seno, please you say, me. I tell what my heart asks for. To the times it cries out. The sultry shout estronda inside of my heart. It swims. The heart of this rough draft of writer is friendly. The shout is for I to awake itself. To be intent. I am next to a hole without fundura. Serious? I run. I come back some steps. It does not advance. Who I am? I fell. I come back more not, I do not come back more. now? The heart did not help me in the due time. Lie. It tried to help yes. But I did not listen at the certain moment. You, my reading ally, can not be understand until here what I try to describe, but are defying yourself. Writing without escrpulos. Optimum not yet he came. Optimum he will not never come. I do not want optimum. My heart is individualistic. It wants optimum, it wants the exclusive one. I only want to be only in the form to think, to act. Only. I hug the wind. Poxa the truth is appearing. Or already it appeared? It understands nobody me, ties my Rose is half that disoriented. What it would happen, I without my Rose the Rose without I? Nor I want to imagine. Necessary of time, surplus. To write is the form prettier than I found not to want to jump of the precipice and to die. Oh, if did not exist my desinibio to write, to tell, to question, Already he would be isolated in a cemetary drawer. But not, I discovered the light. I found the light. I found the light. I write, this is force to live, to survive. I can deviating is me from everything, I am there nor, in the truth. I look the respect, the freedom, the love of the uncontrolled words They import yes me. They had made me to the words to reviver, they brought to this world that to makes me to the times to smile, but for the most part of the time devasta with my heart, hides the hope and lights the solitude.