What the world does not understand is that there are a lot of MEs.
I, the evermore bigoted, neurotic, stringy yet utterly perceptive worker who goes to the office earlier than the usual nine to fivers. While everyone is still busy snoring their way to dreamland, I go to work, with a heavy heart and butt to boot. Clock goes cuckoo and I jerk awake, take a bath, brush my teeth, pick what bag goes to these shoes, hail a jeep, swipe my card, eat breakfast and say hi to everyone with a huge smile on my face. Everyday, I grumble and whine about this stupid reporter, this arrogant sonofabitch cameraman, the haughty, self-important superiors. Everyday I pass by a family living on the streets and I interrupt myself from feeling crappy about my own life. Everyday, the cycle continues and I wonder how much I aged since I started this job.
Then there’s me, the unwavering friend, sister, daughter, lover. Most of the time, I do the work then grumble at how others could be so weak and how I’d do their work for them. Then guilt sticks in, eating me away entirely. And then I hear my editor saying, “This is our curse, our destiny.” Perhaps, I suppose this is mine entirely.
Most of the time, I resign to myself. An introvert, bitching about everyday life and writing about it. Taxes. Fare hikes. Bills. Upheavals. Disgruntled dreams. An uncertain future. Longing for the past.
A book once asked “Have you met yourself today?” Quite frankly, I’m not really sure.