Limited and Possessive

I’m not important, but who cares?

So I’m limited in my thinking and unable to break out of the fate that seems to have me in its ugly, gnarled fingers. That’s alright. It’s pretty much what I’m used to. Something happens once in a while, which will limit me in a different way. Any day now, I think, if my watch is working right.

So I’m possessive of the few things that make me happy in life. Some of them things I got when I was little. They’re a reminder when I didn’t have to worry. Someone else did that for me. Some are things I worked hard to get and will bite any hand that tries to take it from me. And I can bite.

Being limited and possessive makes me a formidable, feroscious bastard. I can smart my way past my things, but why?