« previous entry | next entry »
Nov. 12th, 2007 | 08:05 pm
music: now it's on--grandaddy
I woke up this morning kind of still in a dream. I didn’t remember anything, but I woke up, kind of mumbling to someone, “I’m twenty five years old,” or something like that. That thought took root and I couldn’t stop thinking that as I looked around my slovenly bedroom and tried to will my useless limbs to move. I’m twenty-five-years-old.
Well, not officially. Not for a month and some days, but for all intents and purposes, I’m twenty-five-years-old and I feel like nothing has changed or improved, but that I’ve sunk into this idiotic rut. I don’t read or write or think. I work and eat fast food and keep vampiric hours and play the goddamn Sims. Yesterday, Tiffany made me exercise with her, which was a step in the right direction, but not big enough. Not nearly big enough. I absolutely loathe the turn things have taken. I have gotten comfortable. That’s not the right word; I’ve settled. I hate to think how comfortable I’d be if I were making enough to live. If I had enough for a new car and rent and bills, I’d probably never leave. And why isn’t having a life enough of an inducement to change? When I was determined to go to Prague, I made a plan and stuck to it (until I convinced myself that it wasn’t going to pan out, and quit, so… bad example). But I know I have the ability to make things happen, I just need something specific, something clear cut. “Move out” isn’t enough. It’s too vague. “Get a job with insurance” just isn’t where my head is right now, and I can’t make it be there. But I do desire some change. I hate my body. And I hate wearing the same shit all the time. And I hate this car and living in this town and being a cashier and being twenty-five-years-old with no prospects of improving my life or putting my schooling to good use. I’m tired of being out of shape and scared.
If I called Mrs. R, but wasn’t able to get a job out of our conversation, would that be the end of the world? I’ve got to stop thinking that every rejection or failure is world shattering. I mean, it’s possible that things are changing right now, as I’m sitting in my car, sweaty and tired, writing on scratch paper about this life of mine. It’s totally possible that as I’m scribbling this, the universe is already putting things in place to reveal something great to me. But I just don’t believe that right now. Not entirely.
I do believe that things are revealed to us when we’re ready, but it’s not this passive experience of the Universe or God or whatever giving you what you want or need. Katie at work told me about this woman who prayed to lose weight, and even though it hadn’t happened yet, it was going to. She wasn’t exercising or eating right, but God was going to do this for her because she was… more devout or a better person or whatever. I guess she thought God would reach down through the clouds and zap her fat away or something, which would be awesome (and kinda hilarious for some reason). But it doesn’t work that way. You have to make some effort. Where was I going with this? I have to set goals, decide for reals what its that I want and then do that. God, if I could just not give a fuck. Like, if I could just be like, “fuck it” and do what I want. What I really want. Not what I think my parents want me to want or what I think I should want even though I don’t really want it. It can’t be something that I’m just settling on. Only when I embrace what I really want will I be able to say, “Fuck. It.” You know? Good, I cause don’t. What am I rambling about?My problems. Part of it is that I have already convinced myself that it won’t work out, and that I don’t deserve it. I’m a fat, unlovable sub-human. I’m too fat to go to Italy with Heniff and ride on the backs of motorcycles and play in fountains and run into crowds of pigeons to make them fly away, and every other cliché you can think of. I’m too horrible a person to be out in the world with other people. I’m too fucking revolting to write and teach and blow glass and, you know, live. But I’m so totally not. Fuck it. Fuck it in the ass. I need to get over it already and stop trying to hide myself. I’m here. Celie says it best in The Color Purple: ”I may be black, poor, I may even be ugly, but I’m here.”