The first refill is always free.

I’m in love with tragedy. Homeless ladies wearing five coats in August, the man who spends all day in blue and red sweats, boombox on shoulder, dancing in front of the unemployment office. The boy at Chik-Fil-A with the Jerry Curl and the coke bottle glasses. He’s never once made eye contact with me. Today, handing me my change, his hand grazed my palm and I saw him outwardly, obviously, cringe.

I know that nothing separates me from these people – Nothing more significant than my measly – albeit regular – paycheck. My family. These are things I don’t take for granted because I know they can be torn from me any second. And, how can I be sure that I won’t wind up standing in the hot sun on the corner of 14th and Central wearing every coat I’ve ever owned? I can’t be.

I secretly see myself as a romantic figure. A dirty rock waiting to be polished and transformed into something beautiful and shiny and important - something a rich, bored, mysteriously wrinkle-free housewife wouldn’t flinch at dropping a couple thousand of her un-earned dollars on. Meaning. I want to be recognized for something. I want to believe that I will be able to accomplish this somehow working 60 hours a week in a mall and spending the remaining three hours of free time I have left alternately taking correspondence courses and playing the Playboy game on my Playstation. I want to believe that someday someone will recognize in me the potential for something other than what I’ve spent the last six years of my life doing.
So much in my life right now seems incredibly unfulfilling. I’m exhausted and restless, and I can’t decide which path to pursue. I want to do everything, but at the same time I can’t even start because I’m desperately afraid of failing. I don’t want to have to admit to myself that what I have now is all I’m ever going to have.