I drive a truck. No, not your little cute compact truck - an 18 wheeler. Turns out it's the perfect job for a daydreamer. Don't worry - a major part of my mind is occupied watching out for major death threats like four-wheelers, but the rest of my mind is - MINE! I write poetry, think about stuff, listen to the news or music or audiobooks, plot my novel - I'm writing about a kid who is stuck riding with her Mom in a big rig. I'm up to chapter 15.
I'm just not cut out for desks and co-workers. And especially not cubicles - what incredible idiot invented those? Co-workers can be nice, and I sometimes miss talking with women, but they can really bring out the worst gossipy side of oneself.
And clocking in and out? No thanks. I pick up a load in one city and drop it in another - in between I am my own woman. Only constraint is that the load has to get there on time. I'm grownup enough to figure out how to do that.
All this and I am making more money than you'd believe.
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