Okay, I’m going to be brief today. I’m in the middle, you see. It means that someone is on my left and someone is on my right. It means that someone’s on top of me and someone’s below me. It means I’m fighting with a leftist liberal and a right-wing nut job. It means I’m the white frosting in an Oreo cookie. It means I’m the ham and cheese in a sandwich with really old and mold bread. It means I’m the fussy second son of three who doesn’t like tomatoes and broccoli. It means I can’t make up my mind whether to fire an employee or give him a raise. It means I’m sick of the whole rat race. And it means that I’m totally fed up with all those extremists, I don’t care if I agree with one of them or both.
I’m going to shut up, but only if I knew how. You see, I’m a chatterbox. But I suppose that’s what happens when you’re in the middle. All those oldest siblings get all the respect, all the babies get coddled and pampered. But we middle kids ... we get the shaft. But we go about our lives every day and mind our own business. And if no one pays much attention, we do okay.
I guess I like being in the middle. Now was that brief? Of course not.
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