Quarter life crisis

It's almost funny how fast life can change. One minute you're riding high on the hog, a bank teller in cheese country, making a modest living, paying your bills relatively on time and saving for your dreams. Then in a flash you're taking a leap on a better paying job and less bills, only to lose said job in a week's time and find yourself moving back in with your parents, sharing a bed with your teen sisters, with the ever-daunting realization that you're 25 and yet again applying to be a waitress with your borderline useless English degree and wondering if you can handle the stinking suffocation/choking despair of life's nasty twists and turns.

Well here's the scoop. The low-down, vanilla:

I am done. So done and over this. Since the age of fourteen, these are the jobs I have held:

Sheet folder at a bath store
Babysitter extraordinaire
Pizza dough roller and breadstick maker
Slave to the oldies, serving country fresh grits
Sub sandwich creator
Stocker of arts and crafts
Wine and cheese connoisseur
Credit card pusher
Answering phones for a health insurance company
Greeting hotel guests, enjoy your stay
Swiveling through sports bar crowds
Scrubbing floors, Cinderell-ey, Cinderell-ey
Bank teller, would you like that direct deposited?

And guess what? At the ripe old age of fourteen while folding 100 thread count sheets, I remember looking out the window at the highway, the surrounding outlet mall stores, the fields with nothing to them, and promising myself, even then that I would go to college, I would make it out of this town, I would be somebody.

So I am leaving. I am going to attempt to sell my earthly belongings, scrounge what I can and get to NY. Now. Not later. This vagabond can't wait tables another minute in small-town, Michigan. Unless it's in New York to support my art; I can't and I won't.

So goodbye, Fowlerville. I can't say I missed you when I left at 18, and I won't say I'll miss you now. Thank you for my upbringing, my roots, but I bid you an altogether un-saddened adieu.