Could You Be Mine Would

Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself on television, starring in a sitcom about my life. I'm watching all of these hilarious and painful things happening to me. I'm laughing at myself, I'm so desperate. Slapstick. I often forget that I can change the channel, you know?

My whole trip, the whole self-hating thing? Y'know, the "fear of success"? The "self-sabotage"? So much of that shit is really activated by comparing myself to other people. Strangers, celebrities, ex-lovers, friends, enemies. Example: yesterday the boy ahead of me at the salad bar bought exactly one-third of a pound of fresh blackberries for his lunch. It made my head spin, I could FEEL the stretch marks on my sides. Fuck that. Comparing myself to anyone is so dumb. Which means also that I won't rub in your face how sublimely cool I am.

Here's my point: I do not wish I was you. I do not envy your money or free time or even how everyone wants to fuck you.

You don't have anything that I want.

In good news, the Soft Butch House is not moving! Our rent is, however, going up. To the princely sum of $700 a person, but with a two-year lease. This is a lot of money, but let's face it: my room is fucking awesome, and gigantic. And things like leases are the exact kind of stability (well, sort of) that I need. I need COMMITMENT. I need to BE SURE I WON'T HAVE TO MOVE THIS SUMMER. I'm thrilled.

Also thrilling: I'm getting a little recognition for my writing.

No comments: