It was a morning. Not the early morning of beautiful sunrises peeking at you from above the tops of mountains; not the kind you read about in romance novels. The kind of morning with just that certain gloom to it, what with the creepy, seemingly-blue fog and all, that just puts a damper in your day. Just another morning.
This is how the first day of the rest of my life began. My life had become routine after routine after routine, constantly repeating itself in such a fashion that let's you know then and there that your life is not a T.V. program in some alternate universe: no one wants to watch the utter mundanity you call life, which, by the way, is too short to spend your time moping about, feeling sorry for yourself. That morning, I realized all of this, and with that epiphany, I started my day fresh and my life anew.
Walking outside, I could see that the dew from the night had not yet even begun to go to wherever that place is that morning-dew goes. Trudging through the jungle of grass and minor shrubbery between my house and what I would like to call a car (but would be more accurately described as a rusty, broken-down, formerly-recognizable-as-some-sort-of-automobile-but-now-just-a-huge-chunk-of-metal) I glanced out of the front screen (past the huge shattering from where some of the kids in the neighborhood decided it would be a good idea to throw rocks at) and thought to myself, "It truly is a great day to be alive."
* * *
I used to work at a place called Projects, Inc. Quite inconspicuous. A company called Projects, Inc. could manufacture just about any thing. In this case, we produce twist-ties. Yes... the annoying little bastards you tend to lose after opening an already-stale loaf of bread. We make those. Shoot me now. But that is not the only thing we produce, oh no... we also make toothbrushes, razor-handles, cheap Burger-King toys that your children make you spend a fortune on just to get the right one, just about anything you can think of that requires plastic and a minimal amount of metal. High aspirations, eh?
Well this was to be the end of that. The new, hopefully-improved Me refused to allow himself to aim for such low standards. The new Me realizes that he is the master of his own destiny (even despite the nagging little voice in the back of his head reminding him of the time he spent nearly an hour lying in bed trying to trick himself into opening his eyes, pondering if it was Fate deciding it was time or if it truly was his own free will -- in the end Fate seemed to hold out since the phone rang, and trying to find it with your eyes closed is quite hazardous to your health).
"Hi, Boss. I quit."
"Oh. That's nice, Kid. By the way, I need these delivered to Management. Could you see that they get there, please?"
"But, sir..."
"Thanks, you're a doll." And that with a wink and a stern look that said quite plainly, Get out of my office before I throw you out bodily.
So much for Master of my own destiny. I delivered the paperwork to the correct party and spend the next, oh, perhaps thirty seconds wondering what I should do then. I opted to walk out of the place, and, what are they going to do to me for it? Fire me? So I turned on my heel and walked out the door.
...Or, I would have if Tom, my co-worker, hadn't spilt coffee all over himself (clumsy fool), and, after uttering a rather appropriate explicative, asked me to go get something to clean it off with. Not bothering to express my annoyance at his horrible timing, I walked over to the bathroom to get some paper towels to clean it up with. On the way, the boss saw me again and called me to his office.
"Have you delivered the papers yet, Son?"
Don't call me 'Son', you senile old crackpot. "Yes, I have, sir."
"Very good. What are you doing out wandering the halls then?"
"Well, you see, Tom..."
"That's good, Slick. Could you go fetch my secretary, for me? I think she has wandered off the premises again. Something about quitting... don't worry, Son, she does this about once a week, and hasn't quit yet. In fact, every time this happens she seems to get more enthusiastic about working under me, if you know what I mean." The old cook even had the audacity to give me a knowing wink and a grin that he must have thought passed for reassuring but I just found creepy.
"Yes, sir. I'll go find her, sir."
I hate my life.
* * *
When I finally managed to track down the young broad that the boss had hired several months ago, it was by sheer chance that I recognized her (or found her for that matter -- I was coming out of the rest room for Tom, he still hadn't gotten any help cleaning that mess up) -- her hair was all tangled and blocking her face. I didn't want to know why.
"The old fart wants you."
"Again?"
"Yeah, something about your enthusiasm levels at work."
"Oh," and she must have known what I was talking about because her face was suddenly split in a grin.
"You look sad. Want me to help cheer you up?" winking.
"No, thanks. I've got to get these towels to Tom. Poor guy spilled coffee all over his pants again."
At that point the door to the Lady's room opened and, lo and behold, there was Tom, all red-faced and excited to get back to work shifting paper clips and avoiding warm beverages.
"I, uh, already helped him. Seems he burned his legs pretty badly.
"Well, that's good," I tell them, not really caring. "I was just on my way out, anyways. I quit this job. I'm going on a trip. Going to see the world."
