almost famous

What should I call this, this self-directed lifestyle change? A new lease on life? Oh, god. No, no, not that (because yesterday I wrote about lease renewals, so you see how I would be trying to be funny).

I’m sitting at the computer at the desk at the office at my other job (not the kennel one, not the unpaid internship). I study the screen through the heat coming off of my hot cider. Three cups of coffee deep, I opted for something less. 

 Earlier I looked in the bathroom mirror, pushed my braid off my neck, stared at myself. Pale, man. So damn pale.

It’s not that I struggle with self-reflection. Or maybe it is exactly that. This morning, when I actually had tasks to complete for my boss, I didn’t have time to think about yesterday’s promise. The promise I sorta kinda made to be better to myself. To launch myself into a promising future. Perhaps, to stop writing so many fragments.

I skimmed over some job postings on LinkedIn. I stalked approximately three semi-famous people on Instagram. I walked across a parking lot to pick up Mexican food for the office. I got a grilled chicken salad. I poured queso on it.

Can I blog every day? Do I think enough thoughts for that? Certainly. But that doesn’t mean anyone wants to read them. It doesn’t mean that I want to form them into complete sentences.I don’t think that many people read this blog. Why would they? I don’t post my posts on Facebook (although my loving sister sometimes does). I don’t utilize tags (I can’t, I just can’t). I don’t spend every (or any) extra hour of my days seeking a more popular forum for my words. Who even knows this blog exists? 

Despite my constant cries for self-improvement, I still maintain this vague sense of a wondrous future. I’ve had it since childhood. I guess I’ve always thought that I’m going to be famous one day. Yes, actually, that thought. God knows where “fame as the ultimate goal” came from. Because my sister and I look the same, we’ve always gotten a decent amount of daily attention. Perhaps in my young, half-baked mind, I let this attention grow into the dream of fame. It’s still growing today.

I want (lots of) people to read my words and tell me that I’m a (really) good writer. And then I want someone to pay me (a lot). Or! Or. I would love to be someone’s companion. I can see my sister latching on to that phrase, tilting her head down, raising her eyebrows, sticking her flat chest out (what? we both have one/don’t have any), “oh really?” No, sissy, not a male companion. An old woman who travels to Europe. She asks me to talk to her because I’m a good conversationalist. She asks me to discuss novels with her. We go to art museums. The experience is my pay. In this, I am very rich.

Just because you write a lot, doesn’t mean that you write good. I want to write good. So, can I blog every day? Should I challenge myself to blog every day? I think that’s so silly. Documenting a journey. Dumb. Boring. Example:

Day 1: I’m fucking boring, which is wild because I can’t even think of something insightful to say in AFRICA! (or GREECE or THE OCEAN or CANCUNspringbreak2k14).

You get the idea. Don’t sentences sealed in numbered lists lose so much oomph? Someone cardboard-box-closed them into the forever realm of “things college girls like to browse while they’re supposed to be studying for finals.”

Perhaps my cynicism says it all–I’ll never be famous. I don’t love or hate anything enough to write POWERFULLY. I just work, daily, against the grain of mediocrity. But. Don’t we all?

If, when fighting mediocrity for fighting’s sake gets old, and the dream of fame keeps me going, keeps me writing– then I’ll hold on to it. Maybe I’ll even whisper to myself “hey, I challenge you to write every day.” But I’ll never admit that.


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