Monday, February 15, 2016

Microstory 256: Perspective Thirty-One

Perspective Thirty

My husband loves his family. He just has trouble showing it sometimes. He has had a really hard life, and his job is just the absolute worst. He wouldn’t be able to get through it if he wasn’t allowed to relieve stress. And when you live the way we do, alcohol is really the only way to do that. People like us can’t just go get a massage, or buy a fancy car, or whatever it is that rich people do. We have to rely on the simple things. You can’t blame a guy for trying to forget about his troubles. My sister tells me she doesn’t care if I want to let myself get hurt, but that he is not allowed to hit our son. But she doesn’t understand that it’s not like that. Our son isn’t a bad kid, but he needs a strong hand. Just the other day he got in a fight with another kid on the bus. He’s obviously not being disciplined enough, and his father is the only one who can do that. If only his job wasn’t so demanding, he could be around to help out more. But he is a good man. He works himself to the bone to provide for us. His jerk boss is the real problem. He works my man and the other “slaves” at the plant sometimes fourteen hour shifts. Well, they’re actually seven hour shifts, but he doubles them up all the time. It’s criminal. Literally. It might be illegal to work people so much. I’m not sure. It’s not like I was given the opportunity to get myself a decent education. By the time I reached high school, both my parents were working two jobs to support seven children, and my only option was to drop out and start earning my own wages. Technically, I wasn’t allowed to drop out when I was that young, so all I did was skip class regularly until they expelled me and forced me to another school. I just kept doing that until truancy laws stopped applying to me. And so I of all people know what it’s like to have to find that balance between work and home life. I’m not leaving my husband. No matter what you say about him, he doesn’t deserve that. When he’s sober and happy, he’s really good to us, and I know that if I just work harder to be a good wife, that side of him will come out more often.

Perspective Thirty-Two

Sunday, February 14, 2016

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 8, 2062

The year’s Tribulation did not begin until rather late in the evening. And they knew this from the very beginning. They were not able to make calls on their phones. In fact, they were not allowed to do anything on them. There was only a timer, counting down the hours until they were to be pulled away from their lives. They last year asked their family to find them tactical gear and certain supplies to aid them in whatever was coming next. Just before the timer hit zero, they dressed themselves in bullet proof vests, which were thinner and easier to maneuver around in than those found in Mateo’s time. Over that they wore black uniforms with tons of pockets for flashlights, pocket knives, those rebreathers they’ve used on occasion, and various other survival items. They gave their loved ones hugs and kisses and prepared for the jump.
Mateo and Leona found themselves standing in an orderly line with a bunch of other people. They were all wearing beige jumpsuits and staring at the newcomers with little surprise. A security guard walked over for a look. “New prisoners?”
“Uh...” Mateo tried to think quickly.
Leona covered for him. “No, we’re not. We’ve been sent to work here.”
“Which chooser assigned you to us?” the guard asked.
“It was Melly,” Leona lied.
The guard was noticeably shocked by this. “She never sends us anyone. We are to understand that she’s not a big fan of keeping her kind locked up.”
Mateo shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell ya. We’re here for her.”
“What year are you from?”
“2062.”
“It’s 2062 right now,” the guard said, shaking his head. “They don’t ever send guards to their own time period.”
“I meant 2014,” Mateo tried to say.
The guard looked up to a couple of other guards and gave them a hand signal. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re dressed like this, but I’m going to assume that you’re inmates until I’m told otherwise. You will be temporarily placed in a cell.”
The other guards started removing Mateo and Leona’s gear and outer clothing. “No, please,” she pleaded. “We’re supposed to be here! Not as inmates! We’re a tack team!”
The first guard scoffed. “Tell it to the poster girl.”
“What?”
The other guards took them by the arms and escorted them upstairs to a corner cell. They weren’t too terribly rough, but they did push them in and ordered the bars closed. For what was presumably a salmon prison facility, it was rather antiquated and unsophisticated. It was made of metal and concrete. They saw no security cameras, or lasers. There were no robots roaming the hallways, and a quick look out the window showed them that they weren’t placed on top of a kilometer-high platform. The gates were, however, electronic. The cell itself felt familiar. “I feel like I’ve been here before.”
“Yeah, Mateo, we’ve both been locked up a number of times. Too many to count.”
“No, that’s not it.” He looked over the room and tried to remember. There was a single small bed, with a table next to it. A shelf of books was on the other side of the bed. Besides a number of postcards, there were a couple of pretty girl posters. They were familiar as well, but Mateo could not remember their names. He decided to focus on the table where there was a bible and a chessboard. “Like I said, in prison, a man will do almost anything to keep his mind occupied,” he quoted.
“What was that?”
“It’s Shawshank Redemption.”
“The movie?”
“Yeah. We’re in it. This is Andy’s cell.” Mateo stepped over to one of the posters. “See, this is Rita Hayworth.” He picked up the bible. “There should be a rock hammer in here.” He opened it up and found himself to be right. The book was completely hollowed out with a small hammer placed inside.”
“Did he teleport us into a movie? I don’t think that’s possible.”
“No, not everything is perfect. Andy carved the chess set himself. This was obviously bought at a store. And these posters are clearly replicas, and there should be...” He walked over to the Raquel Welch poster and lifted it up to find a hole in the wall. “Yep. There it is. Our escape.”
“The Rogue recreated a movie set so that we could recreate a scene from it?”
Mateo laughed, “I guess.” He laughed some more.
“You’re a little too happy about this.”
This was true. He was rather excited. This was one of his favorite movies, and now he was Andy Dufresne. Who else can say that? “I knew it would be important that the Rogue has an obsession with pop culture.”
“You were right.” She pointed to the hole. “So we just crawl through that and we’re home free?”
Mateo scrunched up his face like he was smelling something disgusting. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
Mateo described to her the events of the film, including the parts not directly related to the escape itself. If they had had time, he probably would have recited the dialog and narration word for word, because he was definitely capable of that.
“So we’re going to have to slide through fecal matter.”
“That’s the plan,” Mateo replied, trying to be upbeat.
“Then we end up in a creek, and we’re home free.”
“That’s right.”
“The Rogue said we wouldn’t likely survive this one. This all sounds gross, but not deadly.”
“True. I imagine he has something in store for us in addition to this.” That was immediately proved to be true. The tunnel did not lead them to a replica of the pipe system from the movie. They were in a hallway. No one was around, but it was much more advanced than Shawshank.
“You didn’t say anything about this.”
“Now I have no idea what to do.”
“Wait, now I recognize this,” Leona said after they looked around for any guards. “This is Fox River State Penitentiary.”
“I’ve not heard of it.”
“It’s from the show Prison Break. This is a mashup.”
“So, how do we get out of here?”
Leona paused and carefully recalled the events from the show. “We have to climb through the window and crawl along the cable. But we’ll have to tear the bars off first. In the show, they tore out the firehose and tied it to the elevator which forced the bars from the window frame.”
They walked into the med bay to find they didn’t actually have to tear off any bars. “Again, not a perfect replica,” Mateo noted.
Leona opened the window and looked out. “There’s no cable.”
“No cable?”
“No cable. There’s no way to get all the way over to the wall.” It was several yards away from the side of the building. “He’s creating a no-win situation.”
“No, he’s not. There’s a way out of here. There will always be a way. He likes to be entertained. They all do. If something is too easy then he has to throw a wrench in it.”
“So what do we do?”
“We give him a show.”
“How do we do that?”
“We get you to a computer. It’s not like you haven’t broken someone out of jail before.”
They searched the hallways and found a computer terminal in an office. Leona started working her magic. She didn’t have full access to the system, but as long as there was a single connection through the network, she could make anything electronic do just about anything. She programmed most of the prison doors to open up at once, and she sounded the alarms. She also made the lights start flashing on and off and turned the volume up on every television set. On the security feeds, they could see guards running all over the building, trying to contain a riot.
“What was the point of this?”
“It’s a distraction. We have to get down to the chooser block. I found something in the files.”
Mateo followed Leona down the stairs. They ran into one of the guards on their way. Now, Mateo was not known for fighting, but he used his memory of every combat movie scene he had ever witnessed to subdue his opponent. He wasn’t able to knock him out, but he knocked him down so that he wasn’t able to get back up again by the time Leona took his badge and continued forward.
They ended up in a different block of the prison. Some salmon had made there way there and were either fighting guards, or each other. Leona looked around before settling on her target. “There.” It was Prince Darko, in his cage.
“What are you doing here?” Prince Darko asked.
“We’re getting you out,” Leona explained.
“Why?”
“Yeah, why?” Mateo asked.
Leona swiped the guard’s security badge and unlocked the cell. “How are they suppressing your time traveling?”
Prince Darko presented his arms. He was wearing a fancy set of wrist restraints, not unlike the ones Mateo was given way back when they were in the Reaver warehouse.
Leona took a key she had stolen from the office desk and removed them. “Okay, get us out of here.” She took his shoulder and motioned for Mateo to do the same.
Prince Darko searched around the room.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked angrily.
He pointed to one of the security guards. “Get me his hat.”
“The hell you talking about?” Mateo yelled.
“Just do it!” Prince Darko yelled back.
Mateo ran over and took the hat from the guard who was too busy to care because he was fighting off two particularly vicious salmon prisoners. He handed it to Prince Darko then took his shoulder again.
“This is going to be jarring,” Prince Darko warned.
Mateo felt himself being torn from the timestream, but it was different than all the other jumps. It was like there were multiple versions of him, each one a little bit behind the other in a cascade. A small tremor shook his body as an electrical charge jumped between every single one of his atoms. The scene changed. They were standing in the foyer of someone’s home. Prince Darko released his hand from the security guard’s hat that was now resting on a hook. Light came through the window, proving it was daytime.
“What just happened?”
“You just threaded an object,” Prince Darko told them enigmatically.

Saturday, February 13, 2016

Overwritten: The Other 2038 Problem (Part VII)

My children. My life becomes uneventful, except for my search for my kids. I’m not given any information about the people I’m guarding in this special prison for time travelers. The inmates are forced special medication to prevent them from being able to manipulate the spacetime continuum. In the movies, the not-so-crazy person always escapes from the psych ward by pretending to ingest the pills, but secretly spitting them out while the orderlies aren’t looking. That was not an option in this prison. The medication is given through injections, once a week for salmon and three times a week at least for choosing ones. A salmon named Dr. Baxter Sarka jumps into the time period on the regular to dose them personally. We often chat with each other, and he explains what he knows about the whole situation. There are people out there who are capable of jumping through time and space. They’re immortal, lazy, and just complete assholes. They use their abilities to screw with other people who can jump through time. The basic difference between the choosers and the helpless salmon appears to be superficial and contrived. Sure, there seems to be this thing where two activated salmon birth a choosing one, but that’s not the only way to create one, and it doesn’t always happen. The division between these two classes is, any way you slice it, arbitrary.
Being what The Delegator referred to as an “accidental salmon” I was neither choosing one, nor truly salmon. I was not put on no particular pattern, and no particular choosing one was put in charge of me. If I wanted to go anywhere through time and space while I wasn’t on the job, I could put in a request, and someone would be dispatched to ferry me. I spent most of that time in present-day New Jersey, poring through records, hunting for the two kids that I had adopted in the other timelines. But they were nowhere to be found. My son’s parents didn’t have any children in this timeline, and I could find no trace of my daughter anywhere at all. After years of denying it, I had to accept the fact that either Reaver or I had altered the timeline enough to prevent both of their births. I had erased my children from existence by going back in time. I continued to press for someone to take me to the first timeline, but was rejected every time. It’s never been clear whether that means the original timeline no longer exists, or if they can no longer access it. Or—and this is the most likely explanation—the choosing ones simply don’t give a shit.
It’s January 1, 2038 as I’m writing up my final two blog posts, noting what I remember from that first timeline. I can feel the memories slipping from my mind as I type them out. But also, my brain is becoming fragmented and confused, but it’s more than the usual overwriting side effects. I actually feel sick to my stomach, and I’m starting to have trouble remembering pretty much anything that happened to me for the last two decades. I feel myself become nobody, a nothing. I spend the rest of the night and part of the next day in a stupor. I know that I’ve had a life; that I’ve done things, and that I’m real, but there’s nothing there. I’ve been hollowed out like canoe wood. My other brain functions are being compromised as well. I can’t remember which side to hold the spoon, or why food matters, of what food looks like, or what word I just said. It started with an “f”. What? I just had a thought about letters, but I can’t remember what it was. Did I forget something else again?
“Hello, father,” a voice says to me.
Some of my brain function returns to me, but only enough to survive the next minute or so without forgetting how to breath, or keep my eyes open. “Cranberry,” I grunt. Nailed it.
“I do not understand what is wrong with you,” the girl says. I recognize her. I saw her once in prison...I think.
“Me either,” I say.
She continues to speak, but I don’t understand many of the words. Sometimes, my ears turn off, which I didn’t know was possible, but then again, I don’t know much. “...whereas before you were having trouble distinguishing the two timelines, now it’s like you’ve never had a timeline.”
Yeah, I’m a non-person! I yell. I don’t think I said it out loud, though. “Not personing the non-person life as non-people often do with their non-person lives.” I think that’s drool bubbling from my lips. Drool or air. There was something I heard the one time about cyanide or rabies. Or was it rabbits? What’s it?
“Fuke!” she yells. But I can’t hear very well. I think she might have said a different word. People often say different words than they say. That’s just how it goes. It’s it. “I need Baxter.”
You’re a bastard!” I scream as loud as possible.
“That is not quite an inaccurate description, if I do say so myself.” She craps her finger and a man don’t know from having met before appears in a fascist. Flascist. Fla—uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...”
“He is not well,” the dog says, admittedly. That baxter dog. He’s not a dog though. That—I didn’t say that.
“That, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, that, than, that cat, then bat.” Prat, I mutter to my mind.
“Sarka, what the hell are we gonna do?”
The man looks in his back blag. “I’ve not been given the equipment I would need to help him. This is an unsanctioned appointment.”
“Well, what do you have?”
“Literally nothing, see?” He opens his cat and shows it. No blood, he was right. Good boy, baxter dog boy.
“Where’s your fur, you feather plucker!”
“Lincoln,” a calming voice claims. “It’s okay.”
Don’t kill me, bull!” Idiot. “BULL!” Bad dog. “Bull-goddamn shit!” Dammit. “Shit! Shift!” I slam my fist on the table to demand order. “Heyoooooooo!”
“Please try to remember who you are,” my lovely daughter, Melly says.
“Dotter Thracker Snorkel.”
She either rolls her eyes or make a sad face, whichever is which. “He’s trying to say Doctor Baxter Sarka.”
“Yeah, I got that,” the dog replies with friendly, deadly confidence.
I stand up and try to run into the wall, but I just trip and fall asleep on the table for two years.
“He’s losing it, getting worse,” the doctor says. “I can’t do anything to help him unless somebody puts a goddamn thing in my medical kit.”
“I can try something,” Melly fries.
I wake back up and watch her. She closes her eyes, exhales deeply, and twists her neck to prepare. She puts her palms together in a prayer position before ceremoniously lifting them up and placing them softly on her beautiful head. She slowly drags her fingers down over her face. The face changes. The placement of the eyes, the shape of the nose. Nothing changes too dramatically. She still looks like her, but fresher, with softer skin. She presses on her chest and her breasts disappear. She places one hand on her head again and forces it down before pulling on her wrists and shortening her arms, one after the other. Little by little, she adjusts her body, regressing her age ever downwards. When finally she stops, she’s a little girl, only a few years old.
“I didn’t know you people could do that,” the doctor dog says. He is stunned, and a little scared. And also.
“They can’t,” she says, still sounding like a woman. She coughs and chirps and whimpers while tapping her fingers on her throat. He voice becomes that of her young self, “I’m the second most powerful of all.” She turns her attention to me. “Daddy.”
My eyes begin to water as I look upon her. “Where have you been? Where are you?” Who are you?”
“I’m your daughter,” she answers.
“You’re the one who took Reaver back in time. You did this to me. You made me lose you. You ran away, and you ran from my thoughts.”
“I am the daughter of Leona Delaney and Horace Reaver, two salmon. I was placed in your care after some time in the system. Choosing children cannot be raised long by their salmon parents. Nor can they be raised by some regular guy. Once I turned three, I was taken away to live somewhere else. This would have happened whether I was with my parents, or with you. I’m sorry for leaving you, but I had no choice.”
“But you’re from an alternate timeline.”
“Yes.”
“And you prevented your own birth; your own existence.”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Then how are you here? You’re not here.”
“I am here. Choosing ones have the benefit of surviving any temporal adjustment. It doesn’t matter that a version of me doesn’t exist here. In fact, there can be only one of one person anyway. I was born, and I’ll always exist. Like I said, I’m not like the others. I’m more powerful, and because of that, I can’t be killed by any means.”
“Why did you push your birth father to the past?”
“I was trying to get him to make things better.”
“Things are not better.”
“But they are. What happened to you was an accident. I did not intend on that, but you’ve had a greater effect on the outcome of events than you realize. Horace Reaver has attempted to kill people, this is true, but he’s not succeeded. You’ve made him a better person just by being around. He’s not great, and they’re still gonna lock him up, but you’ve helped the world by sacrificing your life and being at his side. His technological advancements have saved more lives than they’ve ruined. You’ve created a balance, and the timeline thanks you for it.”
“I don’t remember any of this. I remember that I’m supposed to remember. I remember what I feel, and I know what I feel now, but I do not recall the events leading up to this moment.”
“I know, you’re sick. It’s because you’re not genetically predisposed to time travel, as most humans aren’t. We avoid shifting their time placements for this very reason. About the most a normal person can take is a quick teleportation. Anything beyond that and we end up with this.”
“So I’m going to be like this forever? A nonperson?”
“Not if you come back to me. I’m going to help you, but you have to trust me.”
I’m not neurologically capable of declining the offer. “What do we do?”
“We start...with a hug,” Melly says melodramatically.

Friday, February 12, 2016

Microstory 255: Perspective Thirty

Perspective Twenty-Nine

I am Prince Malvolio, heir to the throne of Atlantis, and Knight of the Eleven Realms. My mother lets me do whatever I want, and she never makes me clean my room. I spend my days battling sea dragons and finding hidden treasure. When I was six years old, I discovered that the man I thought was my father was actually not. And I knew it, I just did. There was no way I was related to this drunk who hits me and my mother. My real father is actually Aliouso, Master and God of Wave and Sand. He has been on important business for the last few years, mediating peace talks amongst the three races of Miandralu. But one day, he will return to Atlantis and remove the evil fake father from his place. After he and my mother have finished their reign, he will pass the crown to me, and I will rule with my love. She is a human from Landrealm who’s come to visit us with her friend and mentor, Professor Collywobbles. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, with or without her mask. She does not like to speak, but I can hear the music from her heart. Hers is the most soothing and amazing voice in all of Elevendrel. Others think they know her. They call her their class pet, and they take comfort in her embrace, but they do not understand her. When she and I draw, it is as if we are one person, with a singular vision. We create worlds together, and we help fix the problems of their inhabitants. I know that she feels the same way about me, even if she cannot tell me so out loud. Last week, an evil duke came to our chariot and tried to steal her mask. But I took care of him. So what if I was suspended for three days? No one harms the Imperatrix and gets away with it. But now I am back, and can see my love again. I think I’ll finally make my move and sit next to her. We’ll be holding hands by the end of the school year.

Perspective Thirty-One

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Microstory 254: Perspective Twenty-Nine

Perspective Twenty-Eight

This is my frog, Professor Collywobbles. He’s a real frog, but he’s also not a real frog. When he’s in his tank, all he can do is sit there, and sometimes swim around. But when I draw him, he can do whatever I want him to. He can talk, play the drums, and he can solve the national debt crisis. I like to draw myself into Professor Collywobbles’ stories so that we can go on adventures together. When I’m in Professor Collywobbles’ world, I don’t have to worry about people looking at me, or judging me. I am free to talk as I please, and I always know just what to say. I don’t have to wear glasses either, because Professor Collywobbles has cured by eyes. Last week, he and I needed to pay a visit to the Queen of Atlantis, but I can’t hold my breath that long, and so he designed a special mask that converts water into air, and it also allows me to communicate telepathically, because there’s no talking underwater. As we are awaiting audience with the Queen, I notice that Prince Malvolio is staring at me. I look away for a moment, and then look back, but he’s still staring at me. I tell Professor Collywobbles that I’m not feeling well so that I can get away and be alone. While I’m picking seaflowers, I look up to find that Prince Malvolio has followed me. I ask him what he wants of me and he says that he just likes to hear me sing. When I tell him that I’m not singing, he assures me that he can hear my soul, and I never need to utter word. I turn away and almost want to cry, because I don’t want him to look at me with my ugly mask on, but he says that I’m beautiful. He asks me to come with him so that he can show me his favorite spot in all of Atlantis. We swim together for hours, through sea caves, around schools of fishes going to class, and even a little on the surface. The city is bigger than I realized. Finally, he stops on the edge of an underwater cliff and sits down, but there’s nothing there. There are a lot of particulates in the water, and it’s pretty dark. I ask him why he likes this place so much, and he says that no one else would come here because it’s boring. That’s what makes it special. It’s just for him. I point out that I now know about it but he just hugs me and smiles. Then he says that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Perspective Thirty

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Microstory 253: Perspective Twenty-Eight

Perspective Twenty-Seven

I’ve had more jobs than I can count over the years. I had to consult an expert to figure out how I could trim down my résumé, because it was just too many pages. I was worried about it, because potential employers don’t want you to have such a long a résumé, but if I just cut things out, would they not wonder what I was doing during all these gaps? It’s all worked out, though, because now I’ve found what’s turned out to be the best job ever. Sure, driving a school bus doesn’t sound glamorous, but it’s incredibly rewarding. They say that, if you want to meet new people, you should be in sales. But if you want to observe people, public transportation is the thing to do. The kids are extremely loud and rambunctious, but they’re also more respectful than you’ve probably been led to believe. They have a lot of fun, and they break the rules sometimes, but they don’t fight, and they’re not destructive. Kids are a lot more understanding and caring than you probably knew as well. There is one little girl in second grade who has trouble fitting in. She wears very thick glasses because she’s practically blind, literally never speaks, and spends almost all of her time drawing. Though she doesn’t have any friends, her peers are exceptionally protective of her. Students who don’t already know her have tried to tease her in the past, and other kids rally to put an end to that nonsense. She’s very loving and pleasant to be around. Somehow, her classmates figured out that, although she does not generally interact with others, she is not bothered by human touch. She allows them to hug her if they’re feeling down. They affectionately refer to her as their class pet. She’s given me some of her artwork, and a not insignificant amount of it involves cats. And I suppose that makes sense, because cats are similar in certain ways. Unlike dogs, cats do not like being pet, or touched in any way, really. They tolerate it because they know how important it is to their feeders. There’s a special kind of nobility in that. I learned this all from my son. He hates school, but likes to research random things.

Perspective Twenty-Nine

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

Microstory 252: Perspective Twenty-Seven

Perspective Twenty-Six

My best friend complains about people a lot. Make no mistake, most of the time, he’s in the right. He just also usually forgets that normal people simply cannot keep up with him intellectually. He is, by no means, a genius, but he does have very superior intelligence. He picks up new material extremely quickly, his retention is off the charts, and he tests well. It can be pretty intimidating to be around him. Now I’m no moron—and I doubt he would ever choose to associate with anyone with an IQ under 120—but I struggle in school a little bit more. It hasn’t always been this way. Picture a line graph. One line shows you how difficult the material is, and one line shows you my level of comprehension. When I was a kid, my intelligence was higher than the difficulty level. As I grew older, both lines began to curve up, but right at the end of middle school, they crossed paths. I had one year in ninth grade where everything was perfect, but everything after that has been downhill. I’ve become smarter, but not as fast as I need in order to keep my grades up. Now that I’m in college, the classes just go straight over my head. The things the professors teach seem rational at the time, but then when I try to reapply this knowledge back home, nothing makes sense. I had my IQ tested again, and it was about the same. It’s just that I’ve dug myself a hole, and I can never get out of it. I took education for granted when I was a child. Everything was easy. I don’t remember learning how to read. As far as I know, it’s just something I’ve always been able to do. Multiplication tables? Fine. I didn’t realize until it was too late how much harder life would get. Everything I do is just designed to get me closer to what I really want. And every step is supposed to be easier than the last, but it never is. But I’ve realized what my real problem is. School just isn’t for me. I am fascinated with so many things. I want to know a little bit about pretty much every field, and every topic, but I don’t want to be an expert in any single thing. I’m thinking about quitting school and joining the workforce full time so that I can pick and choose what I want to learn from the internet, and community college classes. I hate being told what I’m supposed to know. I need to be in control.

Perspective Twenty-Eight