If I had a dollar for every morning I woke up and told myself that I'm going to change the scope of the universe, I'd have a yacht's worth of dollars. I'd crush all the peasants beneath me that think my waiting table, dog walking, and sitting on children skills are anything below that of greatness. Because I am me, and the fact that I even walked out my front door today is a service to this languid world. However, these dollars would swiftly be stolen by the left side of my brain that tells me a size 6 will never be seen as a size 2 and that it's definitely too late to become a professional dancer. I'd no longer have a yacht or peasants guffawing at my mere existence. And I, once again, remember where my two feet are planted. These two sides of our mental process make up our supposed equilibrium that tries to stay level, but is quickly tipped to one side or the other due to the a-holes around us. Whether these two factions of my mind are co-existing or just hate-fucking each other (shout-out to OITNB Season 3) is the biggest mystery in my mind, along with the mystery of: does a bagel really contain 5 slices of bread?
As I sit typing this possibly craptastic piece of writing, listening to "These Hoes Ain't Loyal" by the acclaimed Chris Brown and Lil' Wayne, I am brought to the first side of this puzzle: are cynics in the right? In a world where going to college at 30 is presumed "too late" and trying to start your own company at 30 is presumed "for assholes," how much are we allowed to think we are less than? Obviously, the answer should be: NOT AT ALL BECAUSE WE ARE ALL SNOWFLAKES IN THIS WHITE WINTER WONDERLAND. But the side of our brains that tell us Jane will always look hotter in a pair of white jeans somehow lingers for longer than may be healthy. And we find ourselves trying on every pair of size 4 white jeans and taking selfies in the local Express, just to re-remember that size 4 in Express is a joke so we settle for the size 6 at Banana Republic. So because we somehow can't escape this self-loathing, we transition to remembering how Jane got pregnant 2 years ago and now lives in the suburbs at 25. Ha HAH! Fuck you Jane!
Now that Spotify has transitioned to "F*uckwitmeyouknowIgotit" and Jane is in her rightful place, I flip flop to thinking that this quite possibly transcending piece of literature could be the next DIY Self-Help book sold in all the zero bookstores. And with that, we are brought to: How much should my pride tell the world to suck it? My mom has always told me that the world is against you so be your biggest advocate. And that I'm definitely hot enough and smart enough to be a model/doctor. She didn't use those exact words, but you get it. With that, it is our own duty to remember how we were brought into this world to be apart of it and somehow help it grow. But sometimes we think we possess more seeds in this garden of life than Jane, and it blows into our belief that we should just take over the whole garden because Jane doesn't know shit about shit. And we know ALL the shit about shit. So we tell Jane to stfu and move over because we're about to plant a mother fuckin' bean stalk. That's right! A bean stalk. Fuck you Jane!
Eventually we plant our feet onto this purgatory ground of thought and wonder what's more unhealthy. The answer is they're both unhealthy in too big of portions. Duh. Weight Watchers will tell you that at every meeting. So while I write this, thinking it's the next Sedaris novel or Letts play, I also make myself remember that some people will, most definitely, not think that. But that's ok, because I'm now momentarily in the place where I see both worth in what I'm doing and an infinite amount of room to learn from everyone around me who's awesome at pretty much everything and be better than whatever I am now. Including Jane (as much as she sucks).
Still wondering about that bagel though...