As I read the digital copy of the newspaper, I am aghast at how there are so many people who write well, with authority and skill and copious amounts of talent. I’m amazed that most of those people:
a) are not me,
b) are younger than me,
c) are not in the food line or on welfare.
Also, I imagine most of those people to be women and to have working husbands that support them…that their writing isn’t enough to sustain the family or even one family member. And then I think of the fact that this is a Sunday and I have to work at someone else’s behest in a cubicle the color of burlap for at least seven more years (of course to have a job is to be lucky. To only have to work for seven more years is lucky. What a dunce I am) before I have that type of freedom.
And then I just get cranky.
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