Winter is in the air

I went out for a lotto ticket just a little while ago.  As I was driving back home, I lowered my windows to let in the freshening air.  The chill was invigorating and there was a strong smell of a weekend barbeque wafting through my open windows.  How I miss those days; Relaxing outdoors on the weekends.  Instead I'm stuck at a dead end job with no hope of ever finding something better because as I sit and type these words, I'm growing older and less appealing.  At least less appealing to prospective employers.  All I see is that there are people out there in the real world that can afford a barbeque on the weekend and I have to hope that my measly $1.00 lotto ticket WILL be my ticket.  I can barely afford this house.  I can barely afford my bills, for Christ's sake!

 

And still, the barbeque smelled so good.  So much like winter.  It reminded me of so much of my past.  I reminded me of when I didn't have to worry.  And I guess with everything getting better -- the economy, et cetera -- there will be 100,000 more people with jobs.  And I sit here and bitch about not being able to afford my bills without my mother's help.  How she spots me a few hundred dollars when ever she can to keep my head above water.

 

The Post Office isn't for me.  I'm not 20 any more.  I have an education!!  How can I be stuck doing manual labor!?!?  No matter how many applications, resumes, curriculum vitae's I email, mail or fax; It just seems like no one wants a 37 year old fat guy working for them.

 

I have to keep reminding myself that I have a Master's degree, even though it's not really an accomplishment.  I have to keep telling myself that an education is worth it, even if little by little I'm starting to doubt myself.

 

So, I sit and ponder:  Two books that no one will read.  A Master in Liberal Arts degree that means shit.  Intelligence that is slowly slipping away.  And an irrational jealousy of one of V's coworkers because, as she puts it, "Reminds me of you".

 

Tell me that the turmoil that's inside me is really a Nobel waiting to happen.  Tell me that I'll write a book that will earn me the right to have my name resting on the pages next to other literaries.  Tell me that I will accomplish something besides a worthless existence.  Tell me that the pain and the loneliness and the distress is for a purpose!  Tell me that I'll be okay.

 

For a life that hasn't been my own for so long, God, tell me that ending up here wasn't a punishment.