I don't have problems. Me saying I have problems is like saying I'm going hungry when my belly growls. Plenty more people have it plenty worse than I. But to say that I've enrolled in the school of hard knocks, and my recent grades were shiny "D's" for dumbass, that might just be accurate.
I hit a guardrail going 45 mpg. This is not some fuzzy metaphor, I just did it. I didn't do it on purpose, mind you. That is, butterfly effect style, why I feel so whittled now. Like a sad little block of wood that was going to be a pipe or something cool if the carver had stopped earlier. That was a metaphor; I am not a block of wood, whittled or otherwise.
So now every once in a while I look around and am tempted to think, damn, this is rough. But I have an apartment and food, sometimes a car, and all the minimum luxuries afforded the entertainment-run American regular. I even have a job, for what it's worth. I work at Jo-annes.
Yes I wear an apron at work, and yes I work with a majority older generation. But I am in the framing department, dammit. Plus, I'm super popular with the more experienced denizens (see that euphemism? not hard to see why, is it?), I got called a tall glass of water by an eighty-year old woman the other day.
I don't have much money, I have even less idea of where my future lies, and I can't imagine the steps I need to take to get to my dreams. Other than sleep. Which I do. Which is one up on some. Did you hear my stomach that time? If you'll excuse me, I've got to go take my lumps.