Money money money

Sometimes I surprise myself. Not that I’ve always been someone incredibly in sync with my identity – but I’d like to think that I at least know myself to a point. After all, I’m stuck with. . .me. My thoughts. My annoying habits. My temper. My, my, my, me, me, I, me, aye. Today, after a short chat with my brother, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have no spine. I’m not really the type to scrutinize my receipts for an unjust transaction or battle the multitude of ridiculous parking tickets I’ve garnered over the past year. I don’t like asking people for reimbursement of borrowed money. I would rather overpay than create conflict. Why all the fuss? Why the anger? I hate money. I hate what it does to people. It’s so ugly.

This is dangerous.

As with most everything, yes, I blame my parents. They’ve confused me. If you’ve met my mother, she is the type to linger at the cashier at the grocery store after her purchase, just to make sure every penny is a fair penny. And I mean, every penny.

My father is the type to scream at his family to get out of the car if he’s dropping us off – just to make sure he does not inconvenience any cars behind him.

My father goes out of his way to please strangers,

While my mother goes out of her way to piss them off.

And here I am, caught in the crossroads of over and under compensating to appease the state of others. I surprise myself with my ability to compromise. What does that say about me? Why, in this world, are people given more power when they are feared and not when they are just, or trying to do the right thing? Why are mean people so praised?