So I’ve decided to change, to shed my proverbial skin and find myself; somehow. And that is what’s crazy and sad: I know that I’m in here and not out there; somewhere.
Desperate to be, I bought a Tesla. The car can fly. And yet, it takes me nowhere, for wherever I’ve been, I am not there. It’s a fast ride to a vacuum: big houses, noises, private planes and people. God, I know so many freaking people. Not a single flight alone anywhere. Flights to nowhere: a city, a beach somewhere, where I will walk alone and friends and family will tell me how lucky I am. “you ought to be happy,” “do you know how many people want to be you?”
Really? Millions of people, according to this motivational speaker wannabe, want to be me, and I just want to meet these people and ask them: who am I? Because fuck if I know.
So I sold the Tesla, sold the house in the Hamptons, stopped pretending and said: “no more,” to all the busy bees.
And now they know who I am: I’m the irresponsible narcissist who threw all away for a dream of a better place, a place where I might be. “ Fuck you if you can’t breathe.” “What will you do? ”What will you do for me?”
Your what is a why for me, because all the material things you claim ought to make me happy led me here: a cul-de-sac where other people are trying desperately to be; grasping at windmills, worshipping Cardi B, sipping schadenfreude tea, and finding validation on the desperation of wannabes. I-I just wanna be me.
