Warning: I think I hit some kind of record using the F-word in this one. If you don’t fucking like it, don’t fucking read it.
Myeeeeaaahhhhhhh. Weeaaaaahhhhh. Waaaaaa. Bleahhhhhh. It’s not faiiiiiiirrrrrrrrr.
It just takes a little tiny fucking thing, ya know? One, tiny little fucking thing. Of course there’s been a number of great big huge things before that. Let’s see. Mom gets cancer, eventually dies because Dad is too drunk to understand hospice direction and grossly mismanages her medication. I nearly die in a pregnancy my body clearly was not meant to have. I lose my job. I lose my uterus. I lose my house, (with the added benefit of being given three weeks to get the hell out, two-year old in tow, while husband was out of town working), cat gets cancer, (I know, little, but I really fucking love this cat), Dad gives all of his money and stuff to a meth addict and then blows his brains out. THEN I have three auditions in a row that I, and I say this as humbly and objectively as I can, rock the shit out of, (to the tune of having producers stand to hug me and thank me for my performance), and STILL can’t get cast.
Yesterday I found my tiny fucking thing. A woman I see frequently in roles I covet, a woman who, and again I attempt humility and objectivity here, is an older and less talented version of me has for all intents and purposes “replaced” me. I actually cried. I’ve never cried before in my life when I see somebody else get something I want. I’ve cried when I’ve lost things I’ve wanted, but never actually shed tears of jealousy.
I feel like a fucking four-year old having a tantrum.
I know nothing is guaranteed. I know I’m not “owed” anything. What’s more, I have a really fucking good life. I have an awesome family and fun pets and great friends and a cool apartment and money in the bank that will get me through the next couple of months. But I look at my recent past and can’t help but wonder… AREN’T I DUE? I mean, come on. What are the odds that EVERYTHING is snake eyes? At this rate, you’d think I’d win the lottery or something.
I told a friend of mine that the people who sold all of my father’s possessions had done a bit of a runner and I doubted I’d ever see any of the money. He somberly replied, “Your life is a Merchant Ivory film.” I raised my eyebrow. He corrected himself. “No, you’re right. It’s a Christopher Guest film.” Waiting for Something that Doesn’t Suck.
I managed to slip a real, live, honest-to-God movie in between Moments of Suckiness. It was a movie about a philosophical ideology I happen to disagree with, but disguised as a science fiction action adventure. I shrugged and assumed it couldn’t hurt, nobody would probably see it. Yeah… Maybe you’ve heard talk recently about a woman named Ayn Rand? A little thing she wrote called, “Atlas Shrugged” which has been co-opted by The Right to excuse massive greed and, quite frankly, corruption and tax avoidance? Yep… that’s my movie. Part II. Comes out October twelfth and I’ve already gotten hate mail for having a part in it. (Which is ironic because it was a union movie done by a bunch of Hollywood Liberals. But I digress.) Even my Shiny Thing managed to get poop stains on it.
I’m told the solution for this chasm I’ve sunk myself into is practicing gratitude. Ha! You are not alone in wanting to respond to the person who gives you that advice by smooshing their nose up into their nasal cavity. I know I do. Which tells me all the more that it’s the fucking advice I fucking need to fucking take. Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. (Side note: I had a snarky Facebook person comment on how crude repetitive expletives were when making a point. I, on the other fucking hand, thing they’re fucking perfect. I didn’t say this then, since Facebook is all public supposed friends and stuff, but Michael, fuck you, you fucking fuck.)
Okay. Squint my eyes, grit my teeth and force some gratitude. Ready, go! Hit it! Any time now…. Spin that mental rolodex and identify some genuine gratitude. I mean, I can think of all sorts of things I SHOULD feel grateful for, but the truth is, I’m too sullen to allow them to sink in. Come on. There must be SOMETHING.
Oh fuck you for that being enough. Fuck the tears that just shot up in my eyes. Fuck the book full of people who took the time to tell me, technically a stranger, that they love me and support me and wish they could do something to help me. Fuck the people who showed up at my door with a couple of decades having passed since they saw me last, ready to take whatever crap I was flinging. Fuck my kid who greets me every single time by running at me at top speed, screaming, “Mommeeeeee!” Fuck the friends who have let me stay there so often that their son’s room has been rechristened “Kim’s Room”. Fuck my friends who, when I apologize for not calling or picking up the phone, insist on answering with, “That’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.” Fuck the rooms full of people who walk my steps and know my disease and love me unconditionally. Fuck my dog who, no matter what my tone of voice may be, looks at me with his doggy smile, tail wagging, tongue lolling, brown eyes full of adoration. Fuck my husband who has spent the last fifteen minutes on the phone, trying to find the cheapest place for me to have my car’s oil changed. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Because I just don’t think I can maintain my level of ferocious whining when faced with the fact that, when push comes to shove, the only reason I do ANY of the shit I do is to be loved. And apparently I’m already there.
Fine. At least I still have my thighs to whine about.