Thursday, February 18, 2016

Microstory 259: Perspective Thirty-Four

Perspective Thirty-Three

Ever since my bitch cousin moved to the big city and got her angel wings, she’s been all my parents talk about it. I know it’s a cliché, but they really do ask me why I can’t be more like her. I mean, it’s not like I don’t have my life together. I have a decent job with decent pay that I got from a decent education, and I’m doing all right for myself. Sure, there’s no room for upward movement, but so what? They don’t seem to understand that some people are perfectly content working uneventful jobs. My main concern is income and job security. I have those now, so what more should I want, to live in a mansion? I wouldn’t feel comfortable knowing someone could get shot in one room and not be heard in another. So no, a two bedroom apartment is fine for me right now, thanks. The hours are set in stone, and I never have to take my work home with me. I spend my money on the things that I love which is predominantly extreme sports. I do it all; from spelunking to scuba diving, paintball to parkour, rafting to roller derby. I’ve been saving for a major ski trip next winter, and I have other travel intentions as well. But no, that stuff is for teenagers who are, at best, trying to find themselves, and at worst, rebellious. I don’t smoke or do drugs, and I don’t drink very much. What more do they want from me? Oh that’s right, to be like my cousin. She works as a counselor at a crisis hotline, but she’s not as perfect as they think. She’s done things. She’s been involved with certain persons. But I can’t tell them that because I actually like her, and the truth is that she really is a good person. I just wish people would see that I am too. Just because I’m not saving lives doesn’t mean mine is meaningless. I had a teacher in college who seemed to feel like that. To him, the only reason anyone doesn’t pursue the field of social work is because they’re not good enough for it. I mean, he legit had trouble understanding why anyone would have interests he didn’t share. He was either autistic, or just a sociopath. I hope it’s the second one, because then I don’t feel so bad for hating him. What does he know, anyway? He doesn’t have passion. He just has work. He can keep his statistics. I’m going to the skate park.

Perspective Thirty-Five

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