So it may or may not have come to your attention how much I like to hate on American girls who have no ambitions or interests in life but to stay in France, marry a French guy, and do French things, like not being able to pronounce their future husband’s name.
Meanwhile, I am pretty much bilingual, have a teeny accent, read works of literature on the metro, and have a “real” job and “real” ambitions, and I am single yet o so much more worthy of (and starving for) love.
Another group of people I love to hate are artists, “writers” and “photographers” especially. Everyone is a critic, when you express an interest in something. Hell, my tendancy is to provide honest remarks or just cheerleading to people who ask me what I think about their writing- hint, I rarely like it- and there’s nothing that’s more annoying than having someone school you on photography while they take 2 shots for every 500 of yours and yes, you end up getting the kind of photos you like to show to your parents which were not destined for an art gallery as well as some cool shots which honor your artistic side.
LIke the one time I went with a friend to an art exhibition and the woman wrote songs and poetry, took photos (which looked like corporate stock photography, if that , and directed short films. As my friend said, it was a little infuriating to see basically just narcissism and a closed cirlce (to the point of locking the doors during the poetry part so the group wouldn’t be interrupted as the goalwasn’t really to bring more people in), just a mutual admiration society. It was more about her vision and how she sees the world than about the world itself, or any compellingtruth she had to offer. ANd it wasn’t really well done. She could have honed her craft (s) a bit more.
And is there anything as annoying as Cheryl Strayed in Wild with her self consciousness of being a Writer and a Feminist and a left winger? Of course i loved thebook and I have a lot of respect for her, but she definitely strayed into recklessness and not just adventure at certain points in her story- not a great example for young readers- I’m not talking about the heroin addiction, I’m talking about like, basic mountain safety. but when you are a “writer” it’s all part of the “journey,” and you know, being a writer is the most important and blessed things about yourself and makes you more fucking special than any other person in the world that doesn’t have a Calling and isn’t dignified by their tortured genius being rejected by mainstream bourgeois culture.
A close second is the traveler identity. It fits me but I try not to rub it in. I try not to country count compare. I try not to make it about how many greek isles I’ve seen or haven’t seen. I try to remember that traveling is a privilege, and not to act like a privileged spoiled bitch. No, I dind’t get a trip to Paris in the spring every year, and while it would have been nice, I had a mighty fine childhood, thank you very much…
Also there is nothing nothing nothing that bothers me more, in case you couldn’t tell, then any of these PHONIES getting accepted by some wider group and getting to share their “struggles.” Because getting an MFA makes you a writer! Because the size of your camera determines whether you are “real’ or not! Because we’re all just misunderstood France girls and who are we kidding, I want a boyfriend too!
The peson I often hate the most and have to really stop myself from acting mad at is someone I work in collaboration with at times. She is Indian and has lived in america for a long time, and works in a communications role in a fairly senior role. However, she makes elementary grammar mistakes, is not a great writer or communicator, and yet, she gets to be head of something for a very established company whereas the FUCKING FRENCH will never let me do anything more than write an email. NOT EVEN A FRANCOPHONE WHO GOT THEIR WHOLE EDUCATION IN FRENCH WOULD BE ALLOWED TO DO HER JOB IN FRANCE. And I am FUCKING JEALOUS that she seems to be better accepted in her host culture, certainly makes more money, and isn’t particularly bright otherwise. Just a compliant moron, which is what corporate america deserves I guess with the culture of fear and high stakes competition. THANK GOD FOR FRANCE.
And now let me tell you what I hate about myself.
I hate that I am not a writer, that I mostly only write for my less than sexy but bill paying and actually very satisfying corporate job. I hate that I don’t submit my stuff to magazines, because it is no worse than the clickbait I read every day. I hate that I don’t make not just the time for it, but the mental energy. FOr a while there, I felt like I was killling the interwebs with my confusion and self absorbed cerebral ness , but hey, what is the internet without that? not to mention, I have a voice, and it is a shame for it not to be heard. I am ashamed I have not submitted any articles to magazines.
I had a dream a book of poems of mine were published, and I haven’t written poetry in a long time.
IT FELT SO GOOOOD.
LIke, there was a feeling of fulfillment in getting my creative self out there and acknowledged in a way nothing else in the achievement or management game has ever brought me. LIke wow, that was the feeling of success.
So I need to DO THAT.
Iappreicate my respect for silence and to mull things over and to get bilingual, but the truth is I just need to fucking write. Really.
Yeah, I need to get on that.
I can write about happy things for sure. Really.
ANd that’s the turth, despite these rants I am really really happy.
Also the guy who said he wanted something seirous and then cancelled our dates twice in a row at the last minute twice in one week,and then I got mad at him and said I didn’t want to see him anymore, and then he said, good bye kisses when I apologized, and then he said we’ll talk about it when we see each other, but we didn’t see each other and he wasn’t talking to me, and then I apologized again for losing my temper, and then I reached out to him to say I was going on a weekend last minute trip and he said have a good time and somehow I tried to wish him well with all his problems and said swhat I thought was like, let time do its work, whatever will be will be, and then he’s like, well then stop writing to me…I wished him well.
I realize that a cynic is a disappointed romantic, and I haven’t believed in love, not only since my breakup with my ex, but probably before when he first started being sometimes jerky to me and started acting like a loser. What is a loser but a lost soul, anyway? The truth is that I always needed someone “better” he was never really my equal. Only the fact he was older and I was naiive and insecure gave the illusion that he ever was. ANd I didn’t care, because I wanted someone to love him. Fuck, I still do. But yeah, it’s important for me to realize I will never get back the time I spent with him, good and bad, and tring to pre screen every situation to ensure the person is perfect before getting into it, or that it will lead precisely to the outcome I want, is folly. I can’t get back the time I spent pining over my never quite boyfriends and the one that got away (good riddanece FUCK YOU CAPTAIN AMERICA, I pity you so I can’t be tht mad…) and trying to keep my heart out of the game is not going to help. Indeed, forgettingabout my heart does NOT seem to be working for me. And trying to find the wperfect person isn’t, nor is well, trying so hard. Nor is reminding myself about how epheremal time is.
What does help is the prospect of a solo weekend. Paradise. Doing something cultural.
Not paradise, exactly, but o so good.
And no reason to search franticially for Mr Right. It will happen when it hapens, and I hopeit does. And life is so so wonderous. My life truly is full. My cup is full to running over.
And I am so hapy I’ve become myself. I am soo happy that no one stopped me from doing the thigs I wanted to do .
ANd I am so happy it didn’t work out with aforementioned T, because he JUST COULD NOT KEEP UP WITH ME. I was on level 40 nad he s more on level 30 fo rsomethings although perhaps more matre than me in other wys.
I try not to fomo too much or yoyolo either, but in the end, I am happy andsustainable and growing, and that matters a lot.
I fel very confused annoyed mostly SAD because I thought I might be able to apply for French citizenship but I don’t think that it will work quite yet. I think I will have to wait the full five years. Like writing a doctoral thesis dammit!
Another bubble that has really, really, burst and died a slow and ugly death is the idea that having a husband and kids- forever- is the END ALL BE ALL of happiness.
When I asked a friend who has been married, had children and divorced, if it was all it was cracked up to be, she said, “It can be.”
NOt to mention that one of my closest companions these days is a 40 year old who lives like a 25 year old. SHe’s been very successful in her career and wow, she is a lot of fun. ANd she LOVES HER LIFE. and she just piced up and moved to pariswhen he felt like it, and looks forward to having another boyfriend soon maybe. She is truly a happy person, and not lonely in the least. Killing it in life.
And then there are people who do have that special person, and of them I am truly a bit jealous. But many many of thecouples I know closely elicit my deep suspicion.
I know no one is perfect, but hey, myfriends deserve the best.
Coupledom seems to be a bit of an arrangement to live with each other’s flaw. As my greatest teacher and greatest pain in the ass told me, “Our flaws don’t fit each other.”
C’est la vie.
So the story canchange, the angels and heroes can fall from their perches, the villains can turn into sints in teway I perceived them, unfairly, even at the time.
Thank you for our lessons, whether you were aware of them or not.
And please go fuck yourselves.
Anger feels so good, isince I suppressed it for so long.
The old story was that I was so grossly imperfect, that I was fortunateto find someone who would take me as a i am,and this person was probaby “better” than me on some kind of evolutionary/social /cultural /fame/money/power/class/WEIGHT etc scale, and I was lucky to even have their eyes. THey were so good to me, because they weren’t always dicks. THey didn’t make funof me all the time and yet had so much material to draw from. ANd they all made their own promesses, or at least allowed me to keep on with thoughts of mine.
THey also tried to stop me from loving them, of course. Evenmore saintly.
But in the end, none of the goes was really a hero or a villain, no matter how many times I tried to figure them out. They did wrong things and there can be no question of it. THey weren’t right for me for many reasons, I agree completey to that.
But the most important thing now, is just to forget them. Open the coffin, and burn the contents.
THey werenever meant to be a place to visit on my dark days either. THe good times will always stay with me.
A now you have a bit of the macabre for halloween too.
Yes, life si complicated sometimes.
It really can be.
But it is, really, relaly GOOD.
and most importnantly< I have faith.
Not in “love” not in the “notebook,” not in losing weight, not in changing rlosing or gaining religion, not in anything but Life I supose.
I pray for thegrace to accept mystory, and to stop wishing for what sems like the ideal. That I migthe strive to be the best person I can, without shame of being imperfect. THat I might continue to strive, but more gently, and withmore convicntion.
THat I might be good, despite of my fallible nature.
ANdmost of all, that I see the love all around me.
Hope you have a lovely night.