I’m pretty sure my
parents had hoped that I would have had higher aspirations for myself. In
fairness, I feel like I shafted myself a bit too. I’m currently picking stuff
out of my teeth while sitting at my desk watching my phone blow up with text
messages from my mother about where to get my eye exam; she’ll pay for it. I
ignore them. Never-mind - I looked again. She’s changed her mind…I should go to
Costco instead of the first place she texted. I am drenched in the stench of ‘this
is my goddamn life’. I still have dehydrated chick peas stuck in my teeth and I
have to unbutton my pants now because my belly is uncomfortably folding over
the top. Yep…just went there. Music plays in the background and I count down
the minutes till I can leave this desk where I’ve been sitting, doing
absolutely nothing but contemplating how little I’ve done with my life for the
last 1 hour and 3 minutes. But who’s counting?
When I was younger I’m
sure I had dreams about making something of myself. I remember wanting to make
the world a better place. I fit into that portrait somewhere that was
uniquely my own, I’m certain. That all seems like so long ago though. I have
trouble remembering last week. It’s rare that I feel like I have a purpose
anymore. Most days, my purpose it seems, is to make sure my child keeps all of
his limbs and that cat box gets scooped. I’m on autopilot performing a litany
of tasks and the cast of characters in my play all sound like the teacher in
Charlie Brown. Everything comes to a screeching halt. The cat puked on the
fucking floor again. Suddenly everything is in audio again and it’s painful. I
miss the homeless guy from outside the gym, J.R. He used to speak nonsense and
play shitty songs on his beat up guitar, but he was nice and he never asked me
to do anything for him. In some fucked up way, I envied his carefree approach
to a life lived without much to show for it. Could have been the crazy amounts
of crack cocaine he was smoking too; guess I’ll never know.
I was a people-pleasing
little girl growing up; I wanted to make sure that people were happy. I’m not
sure when the illusion that people will treat you as you do them wore off, but
when it did, it was fast and hard. It was like getting bitch-slapped with the
fireplace shovel. It was never about getting what I thought I needed or deserved;
when I saw that people couldn’t or wouldn’t treat other people with kindness, I grew cold. If you didn’t give a fuck – well, guess what? I can not give a fuck even
harder. Everything boils down to a competition. I will out do you or die
trying. You can drink? Oh, that’s nice. Pass your bottle this way. You can run?
That’s cool. Watch me call an Uber to pick me up from the hospital because I’ve
never run a fucking marathon, but I’ll lie and say I did. Competitive eating?
You’re gonna regret that. I fucking love watermelons and corndogs! *has no idea
what people really eat during these things, but will take your challenge*
So fast-forward a bit. I’m
38 yrs. old, have survived my dysfunctional ass family, have survived a brain
that tells me that alcohol is the answer to my problems and a body that says “Fuck
yes! Someone play Mustang Sally!” and I’ve survived a relationship that nearly
killed me. Hell, when I write it out like this, it sounds like all of my relationships nearly kill me.
At least with the booze I got to dance too.
I work for a living and I’m
pretty content for the most part. Ignorance is bliss, right? By no means am I
gonna retire on these earnings though. I don’t have a 401K, no savings to speak
of, and if my son wants to go to college he better get a scholarship or
become a minority real fucking quick. By the time he’s ready for college,
transgender won’t even be enough. We could try to play the Hispanic card; but
it’s pretty played out and he looks too white. Maybe while touring campuses he
can take a nasty spill on one of them and in lieu of filing any kind of charges,
for say, negligent maintenance of a hand-railing; we can accept an offer of
acceptance instead. Maybe the screws were just old and the railing hadn’t been tampered with…you know how
those things go.
I really pray that Curran
ends up doing more for himself than I did. I hope that he doesn’t get stuck behind
a desk with his shoes off at 4:37 pm on a Thursday imagining the various office
equipment that he can staple his co-workers balls to. My hope is that he doesn’t
wake up screaming in his sleep “I sent your email to Justin in accounting and
no one sends faxes anymore, they’re called scans!”
This is probably why I’m
not very well liked. I’m foul-mouthed, opinionated, forgetful and depressing. It’s
why I will always find solace in music and books; photography and art. They all
express in their own way what I feel but can never fully convey. All those
mediums allow me to “feel” and yet they never ask questions, they never ask for
more, and they don’t have a timeline. While I may not have the life that I
would have dreamed of, per se, I have one worth living. There really is no pain
in my life today that I don’t make worse by choosing to suffer. I’m not rich,
not gorgeous, not brilliant, but I am alive and healthy and even loved by a few;
so fuck your charm school, I don’t need it.
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