I hate my job

Somebody save me.

Charlotte asked me what I wanted to do with my life. She asked after one of my long tirades about how no one cares.

"Can I leave from the orientation early?"
"Yes, no one cares."
"Will they notice?"
"No one cares."
"But what happens when they notice that I clocked out before anyone else?"
"No one cares. No one cares. No one cares."

It's true. No one cares. Especially me.

That's when she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I've been getting the lawyer itch lately. And out of nowhere this week came the teacher urge. And I told Charlotte that I should have been a psychiatrist. I understand it well enough.

But those are more interests. I know I'm supposed to be a writer. Destiny. I'm talking about old-man-in-a-robe-chained-to-a-book-of-events-that-haven't-happened kinda Destiny.

I am destined to be the chronicler. I might try to rebel against it every once in a while, but the universe seems to have a way of telling me every once in a while that this is what I'm meant to do.

And I should get to it.