Admitting Mediocrity
On being aggressively average...
I'm trying to escape a fantasy I keep having.
Where my phone doesn't stop ringing.
From all the people.
Who just watched me get the Nobel Prize for Literature.
I coo and gloat over all the people's messages.
Especially the ones I don't like.
Who'd be a bit of a wanker at social occasions.
They won't say it, but they don't think I have a real job and inside they're thinking... "You're almost 40. You're single. No kids. No house. Dude... you're a bit of a loser."
I delight in their messages of gushing praise.
Requests to "meet up some time." or to "go out for dinner."
And then I wake up.
Wake up to the fact that:
- I haven't written anything creatively in MONTHS.
- I've barely written anything at all.
- I am seriously deluded.
Because there are people who write their whole lives and no one gives a shit.
Yet here I am.
Basking in the imaginary glow of all my accomplishments.
When I'm yet to even write a fiction book.
Or even a decent Reddit post this year.
Now for all you positive thinkers out there.
I'm not saying this couldn't happen.
But at my current rate of creative output.
I'm more likely to win the lottery twice, two weekends in a row, tan have that particular fantasy come true.
But the fact that I have it, speaks to the wounds that I have.
Namely, that I want to loved, recognised and respected and someone who did something "good" , because I don't rate what I've done so far, very much.
Which is a shame.
Because I've really done quite alot to be proud of.
But that's a story, for another day...