|Was I a CUTE kid or what? Yeah, my nose is still big... Did you HAVE to mention it?|
I mean just you. Yourself. Your feeling inside. Way back when, you certainly had hopes and expectations about your life and what you imagined as a kid staring blankly at the back of the Capt Crunch cereal box (full disclosure: I am not being paid to mention Capt Crunch, although I've just decided to mention it every time I post from now on hoping they'll approach me, I'd love free Capt Crunch for life. That and bacon) while eating breakfast... Surely you had visions of yourself as a grown up! All kids do. All kids have some kind of idea of how their magical little life will take shape.
Or maybe it's more about what you wouldn't want. Yeah, that's it. As a kid you know pretty dam well everything you won't become.
"I'm never gonna smoke cigarettes, those things stink!"
"I'm not going to have a job I hate, I'll have fun at work every single day!"
"I'm not going to drink that nasty stuff that makes my mom talk like a ding-dong while she's ironing and leaving burn marks on daddy's shirts!"
"I'm certainly never going to force MY kids to iron table cloths and towels. How stupid is THAT!?"
Yeah, you did that, I did it, we all did it. It's just what kids did back then. Now all they do is burn their brains and their eyes with video games. But anyways, that's not the point of this stupid self-deprecating post.
I hate the New Year. Every year it's the same thing. I take stock on my life and always end up with a sour taste in my mouth. Like I haven't done enough. Man, I was reading this person's bucket list the other day and most of the stuff on her list is stuff I'd checked off by the time I was 20. I've always been in such a rush to get the most done. And to do everything.
My list is bewildering. The shit I've done, accomplished, places I've visited it's pretty nifty stuff (heh heh I said "nifty" as an ode to my dad whom I miss)! Yet, it's not enough. I've always had jobs that were more fun than anything else, and it's not enough. I moved to San Diego and am living on a boat, and it's not enough. What is wrong with me?
Or maybe it's not just me. Maybe I'm just the result of society's fascination with celebrities and what they have, and their insane lifestyle, and their über rich puppies with more diamonds around their furry little necks than I'll ever see in my lifetime? Is that it?
I beg of you mes chers lecteurs... Please tell me are you like me or am I the only one who needs to consult Dr Phil or Dr Drew (who aren't even doctors! Such boobs they are.)