Some people are gently handcrafted model ships, proud, stable miniatures of the USS Constitution or a romantic Spanish galleon. They were filled with intent and hopes and are dearly loved, and they're bottled up and paraded around with honor and gratification. These are the girls in my office, my workplace peers. All younger than me, all with jobs requiring higher qualifications. They are smart, polite, friendly, elite. They went to important colleges and they live in classy neighborhoods; they exercise at least three days a week, they never take more than one cookie at a time, they drink out of those metal water bottles, they wear pencil skirts and sensible heels and shower everyday and they are always on time.
I'm sure, like I am with most people, that if they have any dreams that
stray from the socially comfortable, they do not voice them. They could
be dying inside, they could be human-shaped sacks of marbles, spilling
slowly instead of in torrents. They could be truly happy and confident
and pleased and successful. They could be secret artists and dream of
hermitage, they could be former addicts or hardcore militants. I don't
know if any of these things are true because we just work together, plus they
got their outsides
on so well.
Some of us have caged mothers who are extremely private and lawful, and it scares me how much she fortifies because I learned to do it as well, and I wonder: is she happy? She would never tell. And we have fathers who carved faint traces of defiance into our lungs just because it was funny, just to see what would happen, and I'll tell you what happened: I can't breathe properly unless I'm dissident about something. Incompatible ideas and images are scrimshawed into my bones and they will always be battling each other, and sometimes I know he's prouder of me than anything and he's sad because he thinks no one sees it, so I'm constantly reassuring him when I'm not sure myself.
Then again, I may be no schooner, but maybe I'm more.
It's frustrating because I know I'm a dreamer, but then rationally I crush those dreams with temperance. I was not raised to trailblaze, because as successful as my parents were in giving me the confidence to believe in my thoughts and ideas, and as much as they encouraged creativity, they encouraged rationality so much more and I want to do anything and everything but I'm terrified of spending money and trusting people.
So I've reached a decision. Money can go fuck itself. I don't even care anymore. I'm tired of penny pinching, I'm tired of making lists of things that I will do when I have the money to do it, because you know what? I am NEVER going to have that much money. Never, unless I finish number 6 on my list: write bestselling novel and reap the rewards. But plots are so hard. I can do it. I CAN DO IT.
day 24 - a song to play at your funeral
I used it already, but fuck this meme. I used to imagine dying would be like Kermit's show at the end of the Muppet Movie, walking down a road and passing all of the people I loved over the years, and they're all serenading me with "Rainbow Connection." And then at my funeral everyone gets fucking wasted and they break things, talk shit about me and have a sing-a-long.