What if Our Job Made Us Happy?

by bella

Preface

just a story no one will read


July 11

I have no idea what to do with my life.

At all.

I went to my local community college to hand in my transcripts and talk to a counselor, and hated it all. I can't believe I'm not even signed up for a few classes.

Right now, I'm taking a semester off.

Heres the thing:

I think I do know what my problem is.

My mind is in an unrealistic place.

Sure, I've always said I want to be a teacher, or that I want to work in the psychology field. But the truth is, I can't imagine myself in a job like that, and I've never been able to. I feel like signing up and going to college, equals a 9-5 job. A job filled with paperwork, and long days, and desks with uncomfortable chairs. A job with a bottle of Ibuprofen in the top drawer, because of the bright fluorescent lighting. Which is weird, because how can a work space be so bright, yet at the same time, so dark, so dreadful with the absence of natural lighting. A job that can almost guarantee a dose of Seasonal Affective Disorder. (See above about my interest in the Psychology field). And do you know what?

That's safe.

That's money in the bank, that's food on the table, that a job to survive this world.

Others aren't so lucky to have that, so why am I complaining about the chance at having a job?

My generation grew up with technology.

I don't know a time without a TV, phones, cameras, all the gadgets.

I believe I was around 8 or 9 years old when I was given an iPod touch. From that age on to now, my favorite childhood memory is creating videos on it. I was car vlogging long before I would ever learn what the word "vlog" meant. My favorite videos I ever created, were with my best friend, Liv. It was actually a series, named "Haunted Horrors". The main plot was that Liv and I were staying in a house (which was her real house, in case you were wondering), that was haunted by paranormal spirits. We would film inside her house, and in her backyard, in the woods. It was the highlight of my childhood.

And years later, my dream job is to be a successful youtuber.

And yes, for anyone who might be wondering, that's not the only dream I have.

When I was in second grade, my family went on a trip to the beach, and although i'm sure we had a wonderful vacation, what I remember the most was watching a comedian on the television in the condo. I watched it, and then the next day, I remember making up a 'bit', almost a stand up routine for my brother. To this day, I love watching stand up, and well, I don't consider myself a funny person, but given the chance, I would definitely go up on a stage with an attempt to make people laugh. Maybe I could just be a writer for something. Which bring me in to my third, and final dream job,

to be a writer.

If you're reading this, is it really a surprise?

When I was in first grade, I learned I was a very advanced reader. (I was actually homeschooled in kindergarten, so first grade was my first time in a real school.) The elementary school I went to, constantly tracked how fluently a child could read a story, and correctly answer questions afterward. We had one minute to read, sometimes out loud, sometimes to ourselves, and then we would be asked a series of questions. Apparently my words per minute was at a very high rate, but the teachers thought I was somehow cheating it, or not reading all the way through, because at the time I was put into speech class, and I had a difficult time pronouncing words. I still don't understand how they ever thought I could be lying about reading, considering I would correctly answer the questions they asked me afterward. Speaking of speech class, I absolutely hated it. I still remembering dreading having to go to it. There was just something so discouraging about having to be dismissed in the middle of class to go work on pronouncing my words. If I am recalling this correctly, I had a different speech teacher for second grade. She was not a lady I would recommend to be working with children. She would get so mad at me everyday I said a word wrong. But the problem for me, was that I always heard myself saying the exact same word as her, in the exact same way. My mom eventually got fed up with me having to go to speech class, so I only went those two years.

Third grade is when I was labeled as smart.

Was I smart? Eh.

Smart for the rural are that I lived in? Maybe.

The school I went to had everyone in third grade take standardized tests. I suppose I scored well on it, because when the test scores came back, the kids who scored well were placed into a class called AIG, a class for "academically and intelligently gifted students". To be honest with you, I felt out of place there. I didn't feel like I was as smart as anyone else in the class with me. I went on to take honors classes in middle and high school, and then I started home school. And through all of it, I've still never seen myself as smart. Looking back on my childhood, I think I was a lot more mature than many of my peers. I think I was a lot more accepting, and aware than most of them. And I am including the words 'I think', in this, because what if a classmate of mine thought the exact opposite of me? Looking back, there is one area I believe I was strong in. My writing.

Could I structure a comma in my writing better than most of my class? Probably.

Was I grammatically correct in my writing? Lord no, I was nine.

Could I be given paper and a pencil, or a word document, and write stories for hours? Hell yes. I remember being able to take a quick glance around the classroom, and just instantly come up with an idea. The teacher would sometimes give us a prompt, and five minutes to write, and while some kids couldn't think of anything to write, I was sitting at my desk trying to write as much as possible in the five minute time frame. To this day, I still want to be a writer. Which is why I'm writing this right now.

For the hope that someone other than myself will read my stories.

But for the reality, that this is just a hobby. And that I'm wasting my time venting to my keyboard, instead of working on achieving a piece of paper that will get me a safe 9-5 desk job.

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