The Watering Hole

I thought I’d be dead by now. I didn’t think I’d make it to thirty so I didn’t plan out my life. I‘ve taken dead-end jobs for a decade now, clocking in and out like the Groundhog might choose to come up on Groundhog Day, but there’s no spring at 8am or 5pm. It’s only misery and cold coffee, talking around a water cooler like gazelle that will be murdered in cold blood by lions momentarily.

I think I want to be a lawyer but I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m smart enough, if I can hack it. Today I sat at my desk and snapped a rubber band on my wrist. I took a phone call and contemplated existence. Is this it? Should I bother to live?

I want some initiative, I’ve decided. I need to move on from this boring, pointless existence. Remember at the county fair, when you could guess how many jelly beans were in the glass jar? That’s like my ability to point out my happy moments. Maybe there’s a thousand but I wouldn’t know, I didn’t even try to guess. I’ve lost before I started.

I guess in the future, I want to know I’m capable. Capable of learning, of not just writing crappy poetry. Capable of growth, deserving of love.

I want to wake up and want to live. To fully experience life, because there’s got to be more to it than this.