September 1998
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The Begining

of a story I mean to finish some day

by Tracy Nolte

I woke up this morning. As soon as I opened my eyes and saw the gray and gloomy sky I realized it was a bad idea. Then I called my significant other. As soon as 'Lucy' answered the phone and told me Michael was 'indisposed' I realized that was a bad idea, too. Then I went over to see my best friend. As soon as she opened the door in a nightie and I heard the mumbled 'come back to bed' I realized that was a bad idea, as well. So, now I'm sitting on this park bench muttering to myself like an old senile woman. The only difference being that I don't have a bag of breadcrumbs to feed to the pigeons. I guess my problem is that I am burned out. I am sick of living my life. It's not that I really hate my life. I'm sure that it would make for a great sitcom. I just wish that I could sit back and laugh at it instead of sitting here trying to repress the urge to hurl myself in front of the next roving metro bus. When I came to the city I had high hopes. I was going to do something with my life. I was going to be sornebody. I was going to make a difference. Instead I work at the bank. I'm just holding my breath until the day that we get held up. At least that would be exciting. But no. 'Tomorrow,' I tell myself. Like some pathetic shadow of a grown up brown haired Annie. Yeah, she should have fallen off that damn train track. I mean, where's my Daddy Warbucks? All I get is a misfit cast of characters who tell me thay love me and then go off and f*ck somebody else. Not that I am bitter that I seem to be the only person in the whole freaking world who seems to know what it means to be committed. To someone. To something. To anything. But it's time I got my ass of this bench seat. I have to go to work. I have such mixed feelings about work. It's a nice place. The people are really nice. The workload is really easy and the hours actually fit into my schedule. But I hate doing it anyway. I hate the fact that I am a slave to someone else. I am somebody's little stool pigeon. And all because I have to pay the rent. If it weren't for my overwhelming drive for freedom I think that I might already have it by now. I mean, everyday I go and I do things because I have to. Or because somebody wants me to. Or because if I don't I'll die or something. If I just gave up on all of that and just went out there and lived. Lived Free. I'd be fine. I'm sure of that... Either that or I'd be dead in the gutter in five days flat and it wouldn't make a difference anyway. But of course I don't have the guts to really consider any of this seriously. I'm far too fond of the pathetic farce I like to call my life. By now I'm starting to really sound like I'm crazy. Could you live a life that is more of an oxymoron? I hate my job, but I love my job. I hate my friends but I love my friends. I hate my man, but I love my man. I hate the whole goddamned world and yet yesterday I helped host a rally to get a recycling program in our city. Probably the only metropolis in the whole US of A without one and the stupid tight wads in city hall still don't want to do anything about it. Not that I can completely blame them. If I had a big cushy house and a big cushy job I don't know that I would ever be able to see much beyond all the fluff to really find the motivation to do anything that would actually need to be done. One of these days I will actually have a thought that doesn't immediately conflict with another thought. But not today because I'm gonna be late for work.

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