Several days after my 29th birthday, I find that I am doing an unreasonable amount of pouting.
I am pouting because I have failed to transform into various famous people.
Famous people I am not:
Poe (singer/songwriter type)
The list continues in this vein for quite some time.
Interestingly, I don’t find myself particularly jealous of other prose fiction writers. Octavia Butler will always kick my ass up and down the page, but that’s okay. She’s just made of gold-plated awesome, and I’m fine with that.
If this were a serious post, I would meditate on how I’m not jealous of writers because I am one, because I know what that path looks like. I would recall how I was 22 when I first heard the Dresden Dolls and just about to graduate from college and living in a beautiful beach town that was drenched with sun, and the world seemed like that beach town, opening onto an ocean of possibility. And now that I am 29, choices have been made and options severed. And while I always knew I was never going to be Bernadette Peters, it was less clear then what I *would* be.
As this is not a serious post, I will end on this: Damn it, universe. It is completely unfair that I am not, currently, Amanda Palmer. That’s right, universe. I’m calling you out for being kind of a jerk.
3 thoughts on “Life is Unjust.”
Other people whom I, unjustly, am not:
a zillion amazing academic anthropologists such as Carolyn Martin Shaw and Keith Basso
a hundred other people I will think of as soon as I press “post comment”…
Not that it has much to do w/ anything, but I was quite made for Poe, c. 1995. I took my daughter to a show in Portland (OR).
Oh God. I was *mad* for Poe. Mad for, not made for — a small distinction but an important one.