When you try your best but you don’t succeed…
The best part of believe is the lie…so give in or just give up.
Never is a lonely little messed up word. Maybe I’ll get it right some day.
There’s countless songs that can say everything I can’t or those I don’t bother to. Wish I could say repeated defeat didn’t leave me defeated, but I can’t and so I quit. I started this tumblr to blog about my job search struggles, but that got too same shit, different day so I changed the focus on my birthday to force me to write one good thing about each day or myself for one year. Was pretty proud that I was keeping it up, even on the difficult days, but now after 74 days, I think I quit this too. It’s not that I won’t still appreciate things (like discounted rotisserie chicken at Whole Foods on Tuesdays), I simply won’t be posting my gratitude. On the plus side, I also won’t be posting all the reasons this tumblr is called “The Un One.” You’re smart. You can figure it out.
In my mind I had an entire first draft of a discussion on karma (if it actually exists) and how if we have past lives and the karma we generate in those lives carries over into our future selves, I figure I must have been a really horrible person in most of those lives; that no matter what good I do or put out there today, I still have to pay for the wrongs of my past selves and that everything I do now will only matter for future incarnations of the person that may or may not (couldn’t possibly) be me. Quite charitable for the next girl I suppose, but that really does little to comfort the me that is now.
There was another rant in my head about asking how long before you let a dream die. Clearly my writing isn’t worth paying me for and you’d think after over a decade of trying I would have realized that sooner. There’s also apparently no amount of carrots that’s going to make my eyes good enough to edit or proofread either. My focus hasn’t been that narrow, though truth be told, having too many interests/being too open & broad has only worked to my detriment.
Another of the topics in the chronicles of failure living in my brain is sadly ironic, if ironic is the correct term. When I was in elementary school, I was a giant. For real. Four feet nine inches in second grade, Size 6.5 women’s shoes by third grade, giant. This means that whenever there was a play that required a mom part, they came to me. [Wish I was that sought out now!] Before long I became upset and a bit frustrated—I’d been typecast! Or something more along the lines of I was tired of always being the one who had to play the mom simply because I was a big kid. Little did I know that those opportunities could very well be the first and only times someone would call me mom, even if it was only pretend. Oh, to peak in second grade.
I’d like to say I believe in something, in anything, but I’ve seen, heard and lived enough to know that life doesn’t make any kind of sense sometimes. A lot of the time. Most of the time. There are things and people I don’t want to call out. There are things I resent and am bitter about and I’ll admit that because what’s the point in denying it? There are things that flat out piss me the f off. There are things that hurt my feelings (like not getting the same kind of support/advice/comfort/cheering up that I am called upon time and again to give; it is like my words go out into the ether and float there forever, never being heard or seen, much less listened to or answered) Does it keep me from being a good person who does good things? No. That’s kinda who I am and I can’t, nor do I want to change that. The flip side of that is I can also be a bitch. I don’t want to change that either.
For anyone who wants to call me a pessimist, quitter, life hater, whiner, whatever, that’s really not a fair or accurate assessment. Neither is telling me I ask for too much or have a bad attitude. Nobody is 100%, but I truly do my best and don’t believe myself to be a greedy want it all that is never satisfied or happy. I work hard. I try. I give. I laugh. But I’m tired. For better or worse, so much of my (or our as a collective society) worth is based on the things I accomplish, and to know that I have failed at most everything I ever attempted and wanted in life, well that doesn’t leave much to deposit into the bank of self-worth and purpose. It’s the kind of heart hurt that on occasion hides, but never goes away.
And with that, I’m hanging up my composition fingers (Until Sunday when I have one last preview to write. For free of course.) and putting away my red pens. I’m sure everyone who has ever been a victim of one of my corrections (and is also coincidentally reading this post) is breathing a sigh of relief. Especially since I won’t be passing on my anal retentive habits either. See? Giving. You’re (not your) welcome.
Second grade nostalgic,
The Un One
