Ok to not be exact but I’m in my thirties, early thirties, OK, earliesh thirties. I’m not middle-aged am I? Because I was planning a rather elaborate crises. I even had a soundtrack in mind, Whitney Houston’s SHRIEKING rendition of I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOU.
See I want the Diva in me back. I feel like she went downtown to buy some high-heels and she’s still in line. I’ve gained some weight in the past few years, and it’s just made me less of a Diva. I’m losing the weight, and with each pound I shed, a little attitude comes back.
Is that even a good thing? I’m a vain bitch. Yeah, I want men to look at me. But I want something more than that from them.
But then you know, some days, I just want to be pretty. I remember being looked at and admired. It’s so sick isn’t it? Even if I lose all the weight, one day I’m gonna be a wrinkly old hag. I read somewhere that really only plain women truly understand men. That could be true.
Men can get fat. And wrinkly and old. They however, cannot get poor.
Speaking of money…um yesterday I used a four letter word, today I will use a three letter word: job. I have to get one. A full time one.
I hate jobs. OK, I don’t hate jobs, but to an artist or writer, a job is a little like The Holocaust, or I mean something bad (I overstepped a little). What’s something I can compare it to? And don’t say that I’m a writer and I ought to know how to like create metaphors. Don’t say that because it’s true.
Look, I swear it’s not because I’m lazy. I used to think it was because I am lazy, until I went to grad school and met a whole bunch of writers. Jobs weren’t exactly created with us in mind. I want to teach writing, ideally. I’m not certified, I’m out of student loans, so I’ll settle for a writing job. I want like journalism or something…Do you believe that like it’s fate or something, whatever profession you end up in? Kind of like God put us on the Earth with a specific occupation in mind. Do you think God’s that specific? I don’t know, He did pick out the exact length of my eyelashes.
You know I was reading an essay a young very brilliant kid wrote about how he stopped believing in God at one point. I think this happens to everyone, but I don’t know why, it never happened to me. I did normal stop-believing behavior. I stopped believing in like the tooth fairy and the Smurfs (that was a hard one, I had a crush on Handy Smurf).
I’m weird, right? I’m not imagining this? Anyway, as I was saying….I have no proof there is a God. I also have no proof in reincarnation and other things I believe in (We’ll get to that LATER). But I don’t know; if you’re gonna roll the dice, maybe it’s better to be for rather than against. I understand why really intelligent people think it is a complete waste of time. I get that. I respect that.
It’s just that, I feel like this spirit inside me sometimes. I don’t know, it’s Monday dude, it’s garbage day. I gotta take out the trash. Why did god create trash? I DON’T KNOW. I mean He’s kind of a weirdo Himself. (No offense) dude I believe in Karma. I gotta enough shit stalked against me.
And the He/She thing is not a joke to me. I use the pronouns interchangeably because I don’t think God has a gender. But some days I don’t even think I have a gender (I’m being serious) we sort of made up that concept...I don’t know.
I don’t know much, but I know if I don’t get the trash out in time the garage will continue to smell like dog shit.
That’s it right?
That’s all we can count on to be true.