Pushing a pencil is never the life someone sets out acquire voluntarily. As kids we want to be firefighters and ballerinas and princesses. When we reach our early teens we want to be rock stars, to be rich and famous. Then when the junior year of high school rolls around, no one has a clue. Drift forward five years or so and you will see these same individuals working the typical cubicle. But you see, it's OK. At least for me. Because I won't get stuck here.
I guarantee you that the most potential America can tap into is A) it's children and B) the office drones... the pencil pushers. If half of these people put forth the ideas they dreamt up in their office home that consequently smells like coffee and cooperate ambition, the world would be an entirely different place. And I firmly believe this.
My office is clean. Organized. Everything has its place. But unlike my office, my dreams of "the outside" as I like to call it, are messy, unpredictable and a constant source of pleasure. The best way to describe this, I suppose, is a memory box: filled with tokens and mementos of places you've been, people you've loved and dreams you used to cling onto. But instead, this box is filled with tokens and mementos of places you will go, people you will eventually love and dreams you have yet to conjure up.
My box contains a book or two I have written by dim computer light, Broadway tickets to Wicked, tasteful black and white wedding pictures, plane tickets to Fiji, Ireland and the Netherlands. Possibly a baby photo or two. Whenever the office life gets dull, as it will, I pull out my box and think of what I want to add to it. The list continues to grow.
So today, this Engladian has decided to add yet another thing to her box: a label off of a German beer bottle, which I ordered in German at a German pub. What to add next?
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