I took a year off college. I knew what I wanted to do.
I was refilling a ketchup bag. Covered in sweat, grease, smelling like fried “Irish” food, in a hot kitchen on a hot, very fucking humid day, I looked out at the Cape Fear River just behind the drunk guy snapping his fingers for his check. I saw salad dressing vats coming out to refill tiny plastic ramikins.
I said very softly and slowly as time froze, “This is not my life.”
I turned to look at what I was doing and the 30 lb. ketchup bag had a malfunctioning nozzle. My arms were sprayed as well as what I had cleaned up as side work to go home.
I looked up to the ceiling and screamed, “This is not my life!”

The next time, I was in Vegas. It was a bad relationship, bad time, waay time to go. I sat alone on New Year’s looking around the room then to the ceiling, repeating, “This is NOT my life.”

I sit here now, much less interesting ceiling.
Yes, I know coming from what and where makes these surroundings relatively okay or moderately neato …but this still isn’t it.

This is not my life.

My progression goes much farther than materialism.
When it’s time, you know… even if you have to tell yourself.