Financial Suicide

I quit my job a few weeks ago. Don’t ask me why I quit my job, I just did. I worked in a factory. I’m a twenty-four-year-old female and I worked in a factory with a lot of undereducated older people. I felt horrible as soon as I pulled into the parking lot every day. People would be filing in with their lunch pails, taking that last deep drag off their cigarettes and talking about this factory like it was the beginning and end of every idea. I knew those people would be there for their entire lives or until they got laid off and it just depressed the hell outta me. I couldn’t stomach it day in and day out and I started having nightmares about it. In these nightmares, I would be driving an old Camaro, listening to bland alternative rock, and dating some hopelessly clueless and racially confused white guy with an all too obvious nickname, whose pick-up line was something like “Yo, what up? You got a baby?” In these nightmares, I would smell like cigarette smoke, woodstoves, and White Diamonds. I would own Tweety Bird t-shirts and shop at one of those discount stores full of hacking coughs and screaming babies, where everything is $1. I woke up from these dreams utterly panicked. I started calling into work every day, until I ran out of sick days, and then I just quit showing up.