A traveling fucking salesman…
I’m looking over the fields of growing crop, the wind poured dirt over me as I smoke my cigar. The shade is nice, even though the air today is mild. The contrast of greenery, and blue sky with countless pillowed clouds, make today the kids will remember about the summer. The perfect weathered day to be outside and play. Here I am. See me. A 25 year old, not give a fuck, uneasy, gentleman… A traveling fucking salesman. As I extinguish my cigar, a white sedan pulls into the lot, and I notice the coat. Another salesman. Much older than I am, heading into the gas station to probably piss, and get more fucking food for the drive to the next stop. I look at him, and get infused with rage. Here he is, here I am, and I feel like shit. He emits the stereotypical salesman attire, where as I on the other hand, look as if I haven’t sold a day in my life. Worn dress shoes, faded grey dress pants, half way decent white shirt that shows the Grey wife beater beneath, and the nicest article being my black patterned tie and black bar. I could buy better articles, but what is the purpose. Who am I? As a kid I wanted to be a business man. If that fucking child was running in the parking lot today, looked to me, would he become an astronaut instead? I am not defined on where I am, nor where I will be headed next. I am defined on my impression, impact, and resolution of my decisions. How can I become the better half of society, while maintaining my sanity and give a fuck? I may not find the answer today. But goddamn, at least the breeze feels nice. .
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