Would it be dragon-shaped?
Bronze? Leather? Boar’s tusk? Dainty or massive? Or would you wear a hat, because you–like me in this lifetime–would prefer to avoid harming other living beings?
I’m asking because I’ve recently realized that the one thing I want more than anything else is to go to sleep and wake up to discover that my whole life has been a bad dream. I guess I’ve wanted that for a long time, but it’s become a more pressing desire lately than it has been in the past.
I’ve figured out that it is impossible for me to succeed at anything; I am congenitally bred for failure in all things, but particularly in all things that could lead to anything emotionally or financially rewarding. The better I think something I’ve done is, the worse it is received by others, though sadly the reverse is not the case.
This has its obvious problems, as you can well imagine.
The question is, then, how in the world am I supposed to make it in this world?
I obviously can’t do so by my writing: born and bred for failure definitely applies to my already underwhelming writing skills.
But I haven’t any other skills to use, either.
Too stupid for academia. We’ve established this repeatedly.
Literally no ability to process visual imagery, so no hope of discovering any latent ability in any visual artistic medium.
Even if I had any acting ability (and I don’t), I look like the south end of a north-bound hippopotamus (only less gray) so there’s no chance of going into the performative arts.
No physical stamina, no social skills and no work history, so I can’t go into basic career paths like sales clerks and whatnot. (Plus I’m way too old to be starting at entry level positions.)
I am left with literally nothing, unless I get someone else to win the lottery on my behalf and give me the money.
Like that would ever happen.
How the heck did I manage to screw my life up this badly? Usually, to wreck a life, you’d expect someone to have to engage in danger sign activities like drugs, drinking and wild sex. I’ve never done any of those things. (Well, I did at one point in my life I did do a tiny amount of drinking, but one margarita on the rare occasions when I went to a nice Mexican restaurant hardly seems to count. Especially since I always asked for it to be a weak one.)
I often like to think it’s karma. That I’m so screwed up in this life not (just) because I made so many spectacularly stupid decisions, but because I did something so terribly wrong in a previous life that this life is punishment for it.
In which case, in the previous life, I must’ve been an oversexed, male chauvinist who routinely went about a battlefield slaughtering people left, right and center. Not really a very nice thought. Particularly because I haven’t really been “good” enough in this life to earn a better next life, I wouldn’t think. (Then again, what the heck do I know? I have little to no knowledge of the Hindu religion from whence the reincarnation terminology springs, and while I’ve read a summary of the Socratic/Platonic philosophic equivalent of reincarnation, it was only a one page summary, and I read it a couple of days ago, while my head was all wobbly with medication, so my information retention was not at its best, to say the least.)
Anyway, I realize that complaining about it isn’t going to make it any better, but I’m not quite sure what will, and sometimes just talking about it (or–in this case–typing about it) can help me work through my thoughts and try to come to grips with the situation in the hopes of understanding things and finding possible solutions.
Though at the moment I certainly don’t see any.
And my head is still a bit wobbly, I’m sorry to say. I was hoping I’d be adjusted to the medication by now.