I couldn’t move today. I got up and walked through my typical morning routine. My fiancées alarm clock goes off singing some mambo-slash animated song about not getting enough sleep, he wakes up and showers, and comes back into our room and kisses me on the cheek with his fresh morning wet hair and amazing old spice man smell. He get’s our dog and places her on the bed for 15 minutes of what Hobo and I call morning love, and then I roll out of bed and check my phone, and within the first 10 minutes of being awake, I am assaulted with hundreds of updates. Proof that the entire world works harder than I do, and that all of them are cooler than me. last nights party tweets, today’s record release and everyone cares about them and no one cares abut me.
The good thing about having no one care about you, and having a collection of part-time jobs that that mostly be done at home is that you get to make tea, eat toast and drag yourself to “work” without leaving you house. I wear pajamas to work, I never brush my hair, and the only time I shower is when I think I might have to leave my house, which is almost never.
I take my tea upstairs and sit in front of my computer and begin the process of trying to get my mind to create inspiration for others, when I myself, and totally un-inspired to do that. I’m supposed to be writing something, a book, a blog, a story, one hundred and forty characters that would change your life, none of it comes to me.
Today, unlike most days where I stumble into creating something somewhat worthy of your eyes, I have nothing. So, today I went outside and sat by a tree. The tree I am sitting beside isn’t even close to looking like a tree that will inspire you. It’s beside a parking garage on a busy street. There is some sun shining on the tree, and i know it is the favorite spot for the neighborhood animals to piss on their nightly walks. I don’t care. I can’t be inside. I have no where to go. The tree is my only option. If I go inside I will be forced to realize that I have nothing to write about, and since I have 2 friends in Los Angeles (one of them is at work and my future husband, and one has spent maybe 5 days in the last year with time in her life for friendship- both equally awesome and love-able. But not at 2 pm when I am sitting next to pisstree.)
When I sit under the tree I start to think about regrets. Every year it seems my list of regrets gets longer and longer. It’s like the smallest regrets somehow began compounding regretful interest and now I am about to implode myself with all of it.
I regret my life. Alot. When you are seven and 11 and 15 you think your parents did nothing with their lives, but you will never be like them. you think that because enough people told you that you were special, that somehow you might actually be special enough to be something, to be something different, but it’s humanly and evolutionary impossible to be something different because we are humans, we are dinosaurs we are stardust. We are on this planet to live and breed and die, and if we are special, or if we are not special, we will always be these things. I moved to NYC at 19 because I was never going to be normal. I didn’t want to be normal. I didn’t want to be what everyone else was. I didn’t go to school, the only resume credits I have on my work resume involve music videos, dancing like a slut, and a few timesteps, none of which help you in a career that you actually need a resume.
So here I am, different. I regret being different. I regret so deeply trying to change the entire path of human evolution and make something stay. I regret being so fiercely sure I could make this happen in my 20’s that I exhausted myself doing it, and I regret that now in my 30’s I am too tired to try anything else. My skill was being special. That’s only a skill that works on movies and storybooks. I would give everyone some hard tough love advice if they read to the bottom of the page. That would be. Don’t try to be special, don’t try to change the world, because the world will never change. The world will always be unfair and it won’t ever love you back the way you love it. Humans are evil, ego ruins the best possibilities and being special comes with an entire garbage bag of bullshit that you won’t want. Being rejected, being alone, being sad, being poor, being discouraged, being unloved, being insane.
The “special” people that you see, get to be that way because they have entire teams of people trying to make them special, so much so, that at some point along the road, they will convince themselves that they actually are better, more talented, and more special than everyone else. We will get to watch them be special, and rate our specialness next to theirs. We rate the value of human life is very weird ways these days. Followers, and hits, and #1’s. We seem to live in a culture that doesn’t want to rate humans on their global impact, the kindness in their hearts, or what a good mothers they are. We rate the value of our lives in cars, and brands and how shiny our hair is. We are a world obsessed with money and power, and mostly we are obsessed with being “special.”
I wish my mother had sat me down at 15 and said “you will always be special to us, but you will never be special to everyone.”
She told me I was special. I think she was wrong.