Scraping mice waste off of dirty boxes I could feel my finger nails scratching against the old cardboard. Bending down to stack the remaining crates my back muscles started contracting so I started using more of a knee bending motion for relief. Earlier in the day I’d cleaned three cars as the funk of sweat in the sun started to set in. This was what hard work felt like. I’d been outside all day and while looking in the mirror I couldn’t help but notice how my goggles were indented into my facial muscles. Feeling exhausted I knew I had to have walked up those steps over 50 times but I had to keep pushing myself. I had to keep working. I knew I had to get my news program done even though I only had a few subscribers. Sadly, I lost one subscriber, but I’d come to accept the fact that not too many people care to stay informed anymore so I kept taking notes and kept reporting. All of this work and I still didn’t have any excess money to buy food. Gas prices had reached $4.19 a gallon. Highly qualified to do even skilled labor I worked every job I could find, on the roof, in the kitchen and even cleaning waste. People started to believe that I was taking steroids because I’d worked so hard. Grueling eight mile runs in the park, muscle cramps, laps in the pool and gut throbbing push-ups and sit-up reps. I worked so hard that I dreamed of more work while sleeping. This was my life, I came out of my mother’s womb constructing a bridge into the free world.
Hard Work
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