Some days, the idea of work – the act of trading life for money – is so unbearably foreign that she can’t help but hit the snooze alarm one more time.
The blankets were removed from her. Her roommate was the worst. With a groan, she pulled her pillow over her head. “I don’t want to be in this economic system,” she said, voice muffled somewhere under it all.
Her roommate snorted. “Okay, you want to raise your own food? Be paid the same as everyone else for a different job than any of them are doing? What do you want to change?”
“Yeah. Let’s move to a farm.”
“Farms are for morning people. You were never a morning person.”
“Why do you have to make so much sense,” she whined, as her roommate took away her pillow as well, leaving her to be cold and nothing more. “Fine. Work.”
And work she did.