11/22/17 Wannabe

11/22/17

I’ve been good about writing these past few days. Maybe I should reward myself. I don’t know with what though.

Still, I don’t know what to write about today. Nothing ever happens to me, I lead a pretty boring life. Finding something to write about everyday is a chore and I don’t know how people do it. I guess you’re supposed to be like giving importance to the everyday which makes sense because you’re stuck living it pretty much all the time but I can’t bring myself to care as much about my everyday shit as I do about like Nicki Minaj’s everyday shit.

That’s probably another problem of mine I want everything to be amazing and dazzling and dramatic and I want to be adored ALL THE TIME.

 

Screw practicality, I want to burn bright and short I wouldn’t mind dying young. I want to live like Marilyn Monroe and reach peaks so great they never forget my name. I want to be a tragic love story. A story of the love between the public and my façade and then eventually between the public and how they feel about what they did to me.  I want to be like Lady Gaga in Season 5 of American Horror Story. I want to be like (and I recognize that this is dramatically healthier) Vivienne Westwood.

We actually talked about wannabes in my social psychology class. Obviously going off the previous descriptions I gave it would be better for my overall health to stay a little closer to Aunt Viv than to Elizabeth (the countess). And I mean sure Vivienne Westwood’s rejection of capitalism (strictly on a personal level) may be smarter than blindly craving excess (though I’m not sure yet about the merits of her particular approach) but just picture me living the ultimate consumer wet dream.

I mean really! Imagine me bloodthirsty. Imagine me a nightmare. Elizabeth The Countess. Little mouse, little bird, little. Soft little thing turned mean. Turned needy. Needy people are the worst. They can’t even help it that’s the thing. I’d turn others needy too and then let them go. Of course they wouldn’t really be able to go, not after what I’d done. I’d rip them out of their comfort zone, I’d thrust them into an unfamiliar but glamorous world where I was the only friendly thing. They’d need me. But I wouldn’t need them. Well I might (I would) but they wouldn’t ever know that.

 

Imagine:

I’m a well established writer or fashion designer or stylist or actress (it has to be something glamorous with room for dramatics and romance). You’re an acquaintance I’ve met me once at a party but you don’t know if you could even really say you met me because in all your awe you forgot how to speak. In my presence everybody feels special and warm. I was practically radiating light when you saw me, that’s what really took your breath away.

With my platforms on I was a dazzling 6ft tall which was exacerbated by the fact that many of the party goers in attendance were a lot shorter. My hair was thick and curly and reached all the way down to my waist. I wore a sheer pink robe with fuzzy pink faux fur all along the edges. It was tied at my waist and though the fur kept it from being obvious it was clear I wore nothing but glitter underneath aside from my baggy ripped jeans. My contacts were a complimentary shade of pink and it took you a second to realize I was looking at you because I had asked you something. (If you feel like you’re reading a bad fanfiction it’s because you are.)

“What’s your name?” I repeated.

“*insert your name here*”

And now you’re on your way to my house to come and discuss some work thing. You pull up to an unassuming house in the suburbs of some big city. You were told to let yourself in so you do. You’re greeted by a large aquarium. Jellyfish, octopuses, and weird sea slugs that look like aliens are all over the living room. The house is quite small actually but full of personality. The walls are almost covered in art and trash and memorabilia. You suddenly don’t know what to do with yourself.

I mean actually now that I wrote it down maybe I could have that without being famous although it might be hard to radiate warmth and light. MAYBE SHE’S BORN WITH IT. Everything else I could buy with a good enough job.

But the reality of my life right now is that I have no money, 3 friends, and a terrible attitude. Not to mention an inability to dress the way that I want because I have to work or go to school. (Really I’m also self-conscious which you may read as “afraid to be happy”.) I do live in the suburb of a big city but it’s DC and everything cool happens in NYC or LA.

I’m such a boring person and it KILLS me. Especially knowing that it’s really my fault. I could do cool fun things but I don’t; I’m picky and unreasonable. TELL ME HOW YOU REALLY FEEL. I go to school I go to work I come home. What is the point of a person like me existing? I want to be the kind of person who dies and then gets a biographical movie published where all these stars share stories about me. Nobody watching has heard of me but they’ve heard of everybody who knew me and now even in death I am captivating fresh audiences.

I guess that’s part of my whole path to self-actualization (aka my hippie bullshit) I need to settle down and let go of the idea of being someone important. I need to just be in the now and accept what I am. I need to recognize that I am nothing and celebrities are also nothing. All of us don’t really matter and all humanity is equal. And somehow that’s supposed to free my mind so I can relax and just live life intuitively and just live for the fun of it.

 

This is so preachy. I talk to myself like I’m some kind of inspirational YouTuber. I guess that’s a cute mantra though.

 

“It doesn’t matter, nothing matters.”

 

Actually I think I saw that in an episode of Rick and Morty.

 

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