Time For Me To Fly...

So the thought occurs to me: I better not plan on a career like the job I'm working right now. Because there is NO WAY on earth I should be so excited about quitting a job. Somehow I didn't mind it that much when I was working it, but the prospect of quitting it--even knowing I'll be heading off to yet another job less than a month afterwards--has me so excited that my Facebook status has been a countdown for the last four days. Maybe I just can't handle working with a boss whose outlook on life is so radically different than mine. But I think it's just that I hate the schedule.

Mama calls me her flower child. I'm like... a leftover leftover hippie, somehow. You know, minus the drugs, plus Jesus. I like freedom. I like being unrestrained. So having a job where I have to leave at 4:15 every single day... it chafes at me. So frankly? I'm done. I'll have it in college with classes and, I'm sure, a job. But afterwards? I want nothing to do with it. Hello, writing.

But that seems so stupid. Oh, I'll go get published and make my living as an author. Um, doesn't everybody in the world think they can write? A publishing house can get 100,000 manuscript submissions in a year and publish maybe 3 books. 3 lucky people get chosen... 99,997 people get left with disappointed dreams. Why should I assume I could be in that 3 or 4 instead of the 99,997?

But you know what? I'm sick of being in the 99,997 in life. Maybe this is my time, for once in my life, to be part of that 3. I guess I feel arrogant thinking I could do that. Yet SOMEONE has to be there. Why not me? It won't hurt anything but my pride to take a shot.