Fifty-eight years old, deputy section level, died on his desk, the eulogy given by his work unit was 462 words.
This is all Wang Lei's achievements in his previous life.
When he opened his eyes, he had just graduated in 1994. His father was building canals in the village, and his mother cooked him a bowl of noodles.
In this life, he doesn't want a eulogy, he wants a serious memorial service; he doesn't want a minor subject, he wants a position where he can stand and speak and be listened to.
He has memorized thirty years of policy documents, remembers the wind direction at every key node, and knows who will be in trouble and who will turn around in which year.
Then start from taking the public exam, start from the township, start from helping my father repair that damn road in advance.
Step by step, write down what you wrote on paper in your previous life and do it in this life.
