Ahh, work. What a strange creature you are, so polite and unassuming and vanilla. And yet, you provide me with enough money to pay the electric bill (with a $50 "account activation fee") and eat Indian food when I want. Still, you make me peel off price tags labels until my thumbs are bleeding because I refuse to grow long nails, which freak me out because they cripple you more the longer they are, and you make me remove a thousand packing peanuts from a box only to put them back in. And you make me smell the sweet sweet scent of French pastries all day but never give me any.
Plus you terrify me because it has somehow become the norm -- nay, the societal pressure -- for people to stay in a job they can't stand and "climb a ladder" to nowhere all while neglecting the fact that often times, they're helping someone else to realize their often far more lucrative and fulfilling dream.
I'm not trying to say I hate work, no. I like it. It gives me something to do and I can pay rent. But I'm almost 99 percent sure now that I will end up working for myself...or at least die struggling to do something that actually feels fulfilling to me.
Tonight, Patrick and I walked around a grassland park at sunset after it had rained for a while. It was beautiful and dewy. The clouds were a champagne mango color and the grass was so green that my eyes had to adjust to it. I even played with two pitbulls named Marmaduke and Leroy. And the birds here are preparing to mate and have taken to squawking up a storm every time someone steps a foot near the park's long grass.
We're all right in the Down Under country. It's almost spring.
No comments:
Post a Comment