I feel like I have no purpose in life. Scratch that. I feel like I have no life. No, that’s not quite right, either. I feel like I have no chance at ever having a life.
I’m clearly not cut out for academia: I’m just not smart enough.
But I’m never going to make it as a writer, because I suck.
And I can’t get a job, because I’ve never had a job.
And I can’t take the housewife route, because I’m fat and ugly and have a lousy personality. Plus most men my age are off the market. Or back on the market after a divorce (or two) and looking for an experienced woman, or a much younger woman, or both.
I’m totally bombing in my class. And I barely even care. Because what does it matter if I flunk out now or in a year or two, or if I drop out, or somehow scrape through and get my MA? I can’t pursue any higher level of education, because I’m too stupid. So getting an MA or not getting one isn’t going to have much impact on my life. A lot of people in the program, they’re getting their MA so they can get better pay at their job. But I don’t have a job, and don’t have any way of getting one, so that’s obviously not a useful angle.
If I only had some kind of artistic abilities, maybe I could somehow find some way of making money. But anything I try to draw/sculpt/whatever looks like it was done by a five year old. A particularly untalented one.
I used to think I was a decent singer, but those days are behind me. Now I know that I’m just as bad at that as at everything else.
And although I still think my story ideas are pretty good, I’ve long since come to accept that I just can’t write. My characters all act like children–albeit frequently disturbingly horny children–because I am mentally still a child. I’ve never set foot outside my bubble to join the adult world or have meaningful adult relationships.
But I don’t have any idea how to get out of the bubble.
It’s like The Truman Show, only pathetic and boring. Like I’m trapped in some bizarre, false reality, where I don’t need to be a grown-up, and don’t even have the option of becoming one.
But to the best of my knowledge, this is the real reality, and I can’t get out of it. (Well, okay, I could, but I don’t want to go there. I’m not ready to give up what little life I have.)
I want to be a writer, but I’m utterly inarticulate. And my vocabulary is actively shrinking, no matter what I try to do to reverse that trend.
I just want to wake up some morning and discover that this whole life has been a bad dream, and I’m really someone else. Anyone else.
I’m always having these fantasies about undergoing past life regression, so that I can learn that I used to be someone really great, or maybe that I was someone really terrible, and so this life is my punishment for whatever I did wrong in that previous life. Judging by what my life is like, if that’s the case, I must have been a billionaire playboy, always breaking hearts, and getting ahead ruthlessly by breaking the rules, so the punishment was to be a woman who’s never going to experience love, never going to succeed at anything, and never breaks the rules. But at least if that’s the case, if I actually could see it and remember it, then I’d understand why I’m like this, and maybe I’d even feel confident that in my next life I’d be someone better, or at least happier.
I don’t think I’ve had many times in my life when I could honestly say to myself that I was happy.
But it feels horribly self-obsessed to whine about it. I’ve always had food to eat and a roof over my head. There are people starving and living in the streets. I ought to be grateful that I’m better off than they are.
Somehow, telling myself that never makes me feel better.
Actually, very little ever makes me feel better.
Sometimes, it turns out that my low points are hormonal, and so I feel better after the cycle moves on, but…I don’t know. I think I’m going into menopause early. My cycle’s all screwed up. It’s like once every two or three months now. I think it’s because I’ve never been pregnant; the human body wasn’t intended to go this long without reproducing, and it’s playing havoc on the various systems that expect to have time off for pregnancy. But it’s not like I could just say “well, gee, then I guess I’d better have a kid and fix that!” ‘Cause I don’t have anyone to have a kid with, and I’m not responsible enough (mentally or financially) to have a kid by myself via artificial insemination. Besides, I doubt I’m still fertile. Not to mention that I got a terrible set of genes, and I really don’t want to pass them on to anyone else.
I feel pretty sad about that, though. People with kids can relax–look forward–well, they can assume that their kids will take care of them when they get old. Who’s going to take care of me when I get old? No one, that’s who. I’ll end up a lonely, crotchety old lady in a retirement home, with no one to visit her, and no one to care when I die.
I’ll be like Eleanor Rigby, you know? Dying alone, buried without a single mourner.
Nothing I can do about it, though. I have no idea even how to make friends, let alone find love.
I’m making myself even more depressed.
And I have to watch the rest of that idiotic ethnic slur of a “romantic comedy” for class. The first twenty-five minutes certainly weren’t funny, and I don’t see any way the rest could be, either. And there’s no freakin’ way it’ll ever get romantic.
Then again, maybe that’ll make me feel a little bit better about myself. Because it’s always cheering to see that there are people less intelligent and less talented than you are, right?