I think I’ve read too many books and watched too many films because what was I expecting out of life? I think I was expecting it to read like a novel or play out like movie. I’m thirty-three years old, living with my parents again, jobless, boyfriendless, husbandless and childless.
I was talking to a young high-school student a minute ago and I looked at her beautiful young face, she has her whole world ahead of her and she was asking ME what to do with her life? ME, I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’ve fucked up…I don’t know where I am…I have a Master’s Degree and I call my parents at ten o’clock at night to tell them where I am.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I have a sense of humor about my existence at this moment and I don’t necessarily look down on myself. It’s just hard being alive, for most of us, I assume. Because I feel like there are those who have a job, a husband and kids and still feel this void or emptiness that I sometimes feel.
I mean as much as I wish I were thinner, richer, and more famous, I think about Michael Jackson. He was the thinnest, richest, most famous mother-fucker (excuse my language) in the world. But the man couldn’t sleep at night.
I can sleep at night. I don’t do drugs. I try not to drink too much wine. There are people in this world who love me, despite my many flaws and the horrific mistakes I’ve made in my life.
But what did I expect?
After all that fuckin’ work, I think Michael Jackson at least, at the very least, expected to be able to sleep in his silk sheets with hundreds of thread counts. My sheets are from Sam’s club, they are beautiful but I got them at a good price. Michael Jackson was beautiful, but at what price? How much did he pay for that beauty, I mean that both literally and metaphorically.
What did he expect?
I think he expected to find love. I think that’s all any of us wants. Whether it be the love of a partner, the love of children, or the love of the public. He wanted it all. He was lucky. He had kids who loved him, a public who hated to love him, and if he tried I’m sure he could have found a partner of some kind, alien or otherwise (I’m kidding). I hate to disrespect the dead, but you have to admit, among other things, he was a weirdo. But even weirdo’s are worthy of love.
Sometimes I think I’m a weirdo.
Unlike other Indian second generation children, I didn’t become a doctor, engineer, or lawyer. I don’t have a steady career. If it weren’t for my parents I might be homeless right now, alright I’m exaggerating. I’m sure I could get my lazy ass up and wait tables and live in a shack.
But my precious upper-middle class ass likes the luxury of Egyptian cotton sheets from Sam’s Club. My privileged self enjoys the comfort of family and old friends. I’m ready to go on my own again, but I have the support and love of a clan.
Perhaps all those people who cried at Michael Jackson’s funeral should have cried to his face. Should have told him how much they loved him when he was alive. I can’t imagine he wanted more in life than that elaborate funeral.
I don’t want to be dead yet, but I want to live like Michael died. I don’t want to live how he lived. But, I wish the world would cry to my face and say, “I love you.”
Call me vain.