The stories I could tell would make me rich if they would sell. My experences would make the obedient rich man nervous. He thought I was "new money." After that I excuse myself from conversation. He then talked about how he bought a shotgun for the young men who vandalize. He wasn't happy with the response he got from the police.
I use to share the sentiment of the young men. My insecurities told me I would never be able to live in that neighborhood. Maybe it was jealousy. One thing is for sure, I didn't understand the fathers and their sons mentality.
Maybe there were more underlining factors to my troubles that surfaces in the military but I am not a doctor.
Success I question that everyday. I've always have. Is it the big house the nice car or speaking the language. If I had any of that I would probably get lost. Being disabled I find I don't take things for grant it like the once who seem to have everything going for them.
I am now self sustaining. NO kids, no wife but a one bed room apartment that I enjoy coming home to. I drive a car built in '97 that according to a menchanic can't drive the long trips but it gets me around town.
I've quit drinking except for the occassional glass of wine. Alcholism runs in my family and frankly I don't want to be a writing clique.
This is not an essay to tell you how great I am, but just to tell you I am thankful for my life, and the stories I have to tell.
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1 comment:
Intriguing and quite good.
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