Assumptions Make An Ass Out Of All Of Us

Here are two assumptions I had for a very long time:
1. That I would be successful.
2. That I would never be happy.
Clearly I knew nothing about how my life would turn out and should just in my kids’ skateboarding lingo “pop shove-it.” For a know-it-all who is also somewhat psychic, I am probably not ready to don a turban and hang one of those palmistry signs outside my door, although maybe I should; those charlatan bitches make a mint.

My Successes- An Objective Tally:
One book published by self, loved by many, not read by enough. You can rectify that HERE.

Two glorious children of male persuasion, each wittier than the next, full of vim, vigor and what they call “beans.”

Sobriety, lots of years, grateful, etc.

Various artistic feats too many to mention that yielded some critical praise, some audience “love,” some clicks, likes and shares, but sadly not much in the way of fiscal compensation.

Happiness tally:
Two psyche ward stays.

Fifteen medications tried (probably more, it was like Christmas!)

Failed marriage (could happen to anyone I’m told.)

My kid says to me the other day “How come you’re not depressed anymore mommy?”
“Because I stopped taking pills for depression,” I reply, thus confusing him for life. It’s only the truth, I can’t write shit that good.

I never thought that my own touch would feel like a lover’s, but some time ago it began to, and I’m not even high. I’m not just talking about when I’m rubbing one out and pretending my touch is someone else’s, though that’s fun too. Somehow I went from wanting to crawl out of my skin in existential agony, to some kind of woo-woo blissed out hippie who still swears too much and gets angry about stupid shit.

Still. On balance. Pretty good. I guess if I can be happy that old success dream can’t be too far behind can it? Now that I know I can’t just meditate it into existence. For a while there I kind of assumed someone was going to parasail into my front yard, knock on the door and offer me the job of my dreams, but apparently it doesn’t work like that. (You’d think I’d grown up as Kimberly Drummond in the immortal television program “Diff’rent Strokes” and even for the actress playing her things didn’t end well.)

Apparently, as most people discover in their twenties (except me and Kimberly) you have to fight and scrabble and claw in this here American market place to get even close to making a living. Or maybe I realized that in my 20’s and simply dropped the mike. “I’m out.” Literally. I stopped doing stand up comedy at 29 when I got too sensitive for it (I was pregnant) and all the jobs since have been just a pale echo of the passion I felt for making strangers laugh into their alcohol.

Except… Lately. Out of the ruins of my old life, charred cinders are rising up to become a new kind of Transformer-y looking thing, except perhaps in a fetching dusky pink. It’s almost CGI the way the atoms are melding, changing daily into something I haven’t yet seen, something no one has, because what is your own gift if not something unique and brilliant, that only you can create, that the world is dying to hear even if it doesn’t know it yet? (Also this time, I’d like to get paid. Thanks.)

2 comments

  1. To be fair to yourself; “making a living” in Malibu doesn’t really compare to reality in the rest of America. You’ll never support the beachfront mansion with multiple guest houses working the graveyard shift at 7/11, but you may in Oklahoma.. just without the beachfront obviously.

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