I Want More.
Today I had a terrible realization. Actually, I had it yesterday, I was just too tired to write since my allergies are bad and when they're bad I can't think. Well, not creative thoughts. Just other thoughts about other things. Like how I want more. How I am SO incredibly excited about the Los Angeles Times Magazine buying my essay. But after that initial excitement wore off, I needed to write more. And make more happen. That just one story will not change my entire life in quite the way, say getting married would or selling a book or a screenplay.
I tried to make it mean that. When it happened, I ran into the bathroom where Kelly was getting ready, my laptop in hand and screen on the email from the editor. And she read it. She was super happy for me. And we were both happy for awhile. But then she had to go grocery shopping and I had to get back to work. But I wanted that happy feeling to continue. This is the first thing I've been paid for writing-wise in 5 years. I thought to myself, who else can I call? Everyone in my phone book, that's who. But only a few friends were there. And while they were excited for me, they were living their lives and had things to do. And that's when I realized the more of it all. It's still only one part of the equation.
When I was doing well and making money and all that other stuff, I was lonely as hell. And every night when I crawled into bed, I thought about how lonely I was because accomplishments are things to be shared-- as is a life. And while my friends love me, they don't love me in that way. In that, I'm going to take you to dinner to celebrate, buy a nice bottle of wine and then have great sex with you way. That's the way I would like to be loved. I would even settle for even a kiss actually at this point. One that meant something, that is. One that meant I'm happy something good happened to you. Or, I'm happy to see you, I'm happy you exist and I'm happy we're together. Even just, I'm happy to have sex with you. Okay, I know, enough with the sex stuff. But sex without meaning is meaningless after awhile or just depressing. At least from my limited experience. And yes, I am reminded time and time again of just how limited my experience is.
That being said, when I'm not getting that -- which is pretty much always-- that's when I think of the other things I want. Like glasses that aren't crooked, sunglasses, a purse, a wallet, a comforter cover, a vacation. Things that I haven't had or replaced in a good five years. Which if I got the other stuff, I wouldn't care so much about giving myself. It's very Pavlovian. Stimulus. Response. Now I know why I bought those cute clothes when I was on the show. It was my way of saying good job (even though I knew that before). It was also my way of giving myself something I'd never had and at the simplest level, having something fun to wear so when the man of my dreams does show up-- finally-- I'll look good.
I tried to make it mean that. When it happened, I ran into the bathroom where Kelly was getting ready, my laptop in hand and screen on the email from the editor. And she read it. She was super happy for me. And we were both happy for awhile. But then she had to go grocery shopping and I had to get back to work. But I wanted that happy feeling to continue. This is the first thing I've been paid for writing-wise in 5 years. I thought to myself, who else can I call? Everyone in my phone book, that's who. But only a few friends were there. And while they were excited for me, they were living their lives and had things to do. And that's when I realized the more of it all. It's still only one part of the equation.
When I was doing well and making money and all that other stuff, I was lonely as hell. And every night when I crawled into bed, I thought about how lonely I was because accomplishments are things to be shared-- as is a life. And while my friends love me, they don't love me in that way. In that, I'm going to take you to dinner to celebrate, buy a nice bottle of wine and then have great sex with you way. That's the way I would like to be loved. I would even settle for even a kiss actually at this point. One that meant something, that is. One that meant I'm happy something good happened to you. Or, I'm happy to see you, I'm happy you exist and I'm happy we're together. Even just, I'm happy to have sex with you. Okay, I know, enough with the sex stuff. But sex without meaning is meaningless after awhile or just depressing. At least from my limited experience. And yes, I am reminded time and time again of just how limited my experience is.
That being said, when I'm not getting that -- which is pretty much always-- that's when I think of the other things I want. Like glasses that aren't crooked, sunglasses, a purse, a wallet, a comforter cover, a vacation. Things that I haven't had or replaced in a good five years. Which if I got the other stuff, I wouldn't care so much about giving myself. It's very Pavlovian. Stimulus. Response. Now I know why I bought those cute clothes when I was on the show. It was my way of saying good job (even though I knew that before). It was also my way of giving myself something I'd never had and at the simplest level, having something fun to wear so when the man of my dreams does show up-- finally-- I'll look good.
posted by jodypwrites | 2:56 PM
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