Tomorrow is my birthday, and I've been doing the usual self-evaluation things that you do when you are about to approach a milestone birthday--that is, recognize that you are a failure and your life is over.
Examples:
1. When my Mom was my age, she had a husband and two children. I have a cat.
2. I have a bogus job, that I get paid a pittance for. I read in the paper that a person with a high school education can expect to earn $22,000 a year, which is only a few thousand less than I am making right now, and I have a Ph.D.
3. No one will publish my poetry. Which means, I'll never be A Famous Poet, which is, frankly, all I've ever wanted to be.
4. If my weight were a country, I would be Australia. Considering Boyfriend is the size of Bora Bora, this is a sad discrepancy.
5. I do not own a house.
6. Everything I own, including my beloved Red Couches, still resides in a non-climate-controlled storage unit in Small Town, Midwestern State. Also included: my entire library, most of my CDs and DVDs, and my antique piano. There is no opportunity to retrieve my worldly goods, as I have no money to move them. The likelihood that one or all of these items have been ruined: 98%.
7. I have no friends in Big City, Southern State.
8. Bogus Job Issue #2: Next year is the last year of the 3-year gig, and I have yet to find another job that a) pays at least $15K better, and b) is anywhere near where Boyfriend lives. Oh, and c) I do not have the publication credits to make the liklihood of a good academic job even remotely...err...likely.
9. I owe the Department of Education a staggering amount of money for student loans, which I will be repaying in retirement. Unless my father dies very soon and leaves me money, which I doubt. Considering that he's probably cut me out of his will anyway (on the advice of the Succubus Queen), chance of inheritance: 0.2%.
10. Despite protests to the contrary, in my heart of hearts, I feel that I will always be unloveable. Please, this is not a plea for either of my two readers to contribute to the protestations. I know you both love me. I know that Boyfriend, Sister, Mother, Old Friends, and Cat love me. But that doesn't mean that I feel loveable. Morevover, the truth is, I cannot love myself for any of the above reasons, and for probably 1 million other reasons that I don't want to go into right now.
Happy Birthday to Me. I think I will go chuck myself off the nearest building.
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2 comments:
Well, if you jump off a bridge or something, I'm going to go steal your cd collection. Just so you know.
Now, in good friend style, I'm going to refute your list. Sorta.
Your mother was also divorced, raising two kids on her own, not so long after she was your age. Do you really wanna be a divorced single-mother? I thought not.
Your Ph.D will enable you to find future employment that will pay you more than a pittance. Or, if all else fails, you can burn it for warmth when global warming turns the country into an iceberg.
You will be a Famous Poet in the most traditional sense -- posthumously. If you were famous while you were alive, the fame would go to your head and your poetry would go to pot. Which is bad.
Australia is a lovely country, full of hunky men with sexy accents. It's a wonderful country to be. Plus, kangaroos.
You do not own a house. You also do not have to pay property tax, insurance and upkeep on said house. Not owning a house means you have the ability to move at a moment's notice, when your fantabulous perfect job offer comes through. Having to put a house on the market is a pain.
If you wish to retrieve said goods, I will take time off from work, help you hook up a U-Haul and we'll go get 'em. Think: Roadtrip!
Lack of friends in Big City means you can drop 'em all as soon as fantabulous job in Awesome City comes up. Ergo, it's a good thing.
Fantabulous Job is just on the horizon, so it's good that the gig is almost up.
Come the Revolution, the DoE will cease to be and all records of loan oweage will be mysteriously vanished. Until then, pray your Daddy dies before he can change his will.
Didn't anyone ever tell you the heart lies?
You are my best friend, Zan.
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