Why am I here? What specifically do I have that the world needs? Am I doomed to be a tired, prematurely aged face in the masses of reasonably successful or not so successful malcontents? And more importantly, who the hell am I?
Today I realized that my life is completely devoid of passion or direction. I have no great love, it would seem. I am relatively bright, but not Borges, Einstein, Dickens, or Allegra Rosenberg. Is there anything about me that isn't phenomenally mediocre? I have no great skills or talents. My face is more often than not, a dermatological Sarajevo. My friends are infinitely more charming and interesting than myself. Mr. Rogers and almost every adult who has been responsible for me have told me I was special. But what the fuck does that mean? We live in a world where all the children must be above average. Being average, to me, has always been a far more terrifying threat than actual failure. This is why I've spent so much time trying to be as unique as was possible without having to face lynching or therapy. But, where has it gotten me? The percentage of people I can even begin to relate to is some sad, weak, incalculable number. As long as I can remember, I pick away at people's character flaws until they are totally written off, never again to be considered real human beings. Well, this is not quite true. I am more irritating than actually cruel. But in this militant be-true-to-your-inner-self-ness, I have gotten absolutely fucking nowhere. I have no more idea who I really am than somebody I've never met. So there you have it. I haven't escaped angst, predictability, or self-loathing, despite all my deploration of emo and self-mutilation. I hereby declare that I don't know shit.