cycle of mediocrity

in one of those moods. don't do this often. not one to broadcast insecurities. just not particularly happy with life right now. never held myself in high regard. but never quite sunk this low either. used to believe the "nobody is perfect" maxim. won't ever be good enough to be that nobody. but such people do exist. perfect people. i should know.

i stalk them.

shouldn't be feeling this way. not quite a complete failure. many things i can't do. many more i can. but. nothing worthy of mention. no brilliance. just your average mediocre underachieving plain jane. sure. good health. loving family. awesome boyfriend. but. these things just happened. because i'm blessed. because i haven't fallen out of favor with the man up there. yet. not because of the person i am or the things i'm capable of. but you know, for once, i'd like to take credit for something good that's happened to me.

i want to be somebody.

not exactly greedy. don't need the perfect life. don't need everything. really. just want to be good at something. not good. just brilliant. wicked. bloody fucking outstanding. best in the field. haven't found that place yet. my special place. my sphere. my domain. wonder if i lost my way somewhere. feels like i was meant for something more. so much more i could be. if someone would give me a chance. if i would give me a chance. doesn't matter.

i can't win.

not when the winners have been decided. a long, long time ago. not when they have everything. looks. brains. talents. money. everything that matters anyway. and we wonder why life's not fair.

summary of charles darwin for you.

rich girls have rich dads. rich dads have brains or talents or both. AND. rich dads marry beautiful wives. or vice versa. genepool just gets more beautiful, more intelligent and more talented with each cycle. and prudently-invested old-money just grows and grows. welcome to reality. cruel slap to the face.

unless you're richie-rich.

so that degree isn't gonna win you the next nobel prize.
your salary isn't gonna help with that villa. or that lamborghini. or that country club membership.
and you are never going to sleep with the hottest boytoy/girltoy.

life's a bitch, eh?
and then you die.

oh but before that you get to retire at the ripe old age of 80, and take your much-longed-for vacations to europe and new zealand and the carribean. a well-deserved break. after slogging 8 to 10 hours a day, for 365 less 52 sundays less 20 leave days, for 60 years of your youth.

provided your brats don't require SLKs and louis vuittons.

life's a bitch, eh?
and then you die.

comforting.