Stress coats my world in wide strokes of muted gray. A Lilliputian army of obligations and responsibilities mount an incessant offensive, bringing me to the ground as I give up reaching for happiness, dangling from a string, the carrot I’ll never reach.
I use schadenfreude to keep going. As long as there are people worse than me, I have no right to feel this way. This stupid, weak, pathetic, lonely, overwhelming way. Keep working. Respond to emails. Answer phone calls. Put on the mask. Hide your eyes so nobody looks too deeply. Stop your fucking whining.
I am an extrovert who hasn’t left his house in 36 hours. Batteries draining as my source of power is unattainable, I fold into myself, looking for something redeeming. Six months of mail sits on the table beside me. My grocery shopping list is dated September 1st. And my bed draws me in like a Siren.
I can be the writer and creator and explorer into imagination.
I can be the business owner and bill payer and grounded realist.
I CAN’T BE BOTH.
At my core, I am a narcissist. Selfish, egotistical, and focused on taking actions that benefit me, create buzz about me, put me in the spotlight. But at the center of that core, I am a romantic martyr and a soft-hearted court jester, searching for her. The love and devotion of the right woman combined with the love and attention of the public would make me an unstoppable juggernaut.
Right now, though, I’d settle for a personal assistant who works for sexual favors.