February 6, 2004

Maybe I need to come up with a Life Plan. And not one of those fake Life Plans I always dream up because they make for cheap sitcom-like hilarity in my imagination; a real Life Plan. Then I could make a big posterboard chart and maybe I'd have some idea of whether I'm on track.

I'm pretty sure I'm not on track.

I'm pretty sure I'm not meant to be half-buried under an avalanche of clutter. I'm pretty sure there should be some form of career or marriage-y type arrangement, although both kind of terrify me. I'm pretty certain Solitary Wino isn't my destiny. Or, I should say, I'm pretty hopeful Solitary Wino isn't my destiny.

My trouble is I have no ambition. Well, I have lots of ambition on a smallish, pointless, homey level. You should see what I did to my laundry room! I now have two darling pegboards and a fold-up work table over my hamper, the kind of thing Martha would have (only hers wouldn't be made of pilfered scraps and castoffs, but still!).

But I don't have any of that capital-A Ambition, the kind that (I suspect) gives you a sense of purpose, a clarity. I'm all adrift. I only know what my purpose isn't. And while that narrows the field, it doesn't make me feel all motivated.

Aside from being personally frustrating, my utter lack of direction is just boring.

I learned last week I'd better come up with something interesting to do soon, or I'll have to fabricate even what little scraps of conversation I get tossed. While fibbing is enticing, the trouble there is that even if you're just doing it to amuse yourself, sooner or later everyone knows you as the Big Liar and then they won't believe anything you say, which in itself is fine. But eventually, no one really wants to talk to you at all. And I'm already there, even without the lying. The only way you can be a big liar and still be charming is you're particularly handsome, or if all your lies are absurd. I'm an elephant trainer. I have a walrus heart. I just got back from the moon, that sort of thing. But outside of my best friends, and a few stray nerds/only children, people won't tolerate imaginary conversations for very long.

It seems I'm far better at talking to myself.

Last weekend, I was in the unfortunate position of being Jason's Friend. Being Jason's Friend makes me the lame, square girl standing next to Jason like I'm the retarded sister in some awful funereal receiving line. The girl all his friends felt obliged to talk to politely until they could seize an opening to flee. In order to say hello to Mr. Popular, they all had to risk getting stuck talking to Miss Awkward. And of course, I had nothing whatsoever interesting to discuss. I didn't even feel comfortable making shit up, as I didn't want to embarrass Jason. I need some fabulous projects to brag about to make me compelling to strangers. I never finish any of my exciting theoretical projects, so why jinx them with a frivolous mention? And my obsessive lists and needlepoint portraits are only fascinating to me.

And this whole dreadful 80s thing is just driving me out of my mind. It's bad enough being the nameless Jason's Friend, knowing you're a conversational booby prize, without feeling incredibly freaked out by the fact that everyone in the fucking bar is dressed like they just stepped off the time machine from my 8th grade Back to School dance at Atascocita Middle School. Creepy. It's incredibly weird and off-putting, and all the hipsters are just walking around casually in their diagonally striped sweaters and skinny scarves and stupid hats and Rush mullets and bi-levels acting like it's all perfectly normal to be dressed like the cast of Valley Girl. I think I even saw pop beads. Now I know how my mom felt when I was a teenager. That's a horrifying thought. Wait. Maybe it was 80s night? This is why I stay at home. God I felt old. Old and boring and indignant about it.

Why do I care whether people whose last names I don't even know find me fascinating? I don't, really. It's just an impossible adolescent fantasy about being charming and captivating and witty, like some sassy hot tomato in an old movie. But I'm not charming and captivating and witty. I'm whiny and peevish and sulky and neurotic. And yet, I dream of being winsome, effortlessly captivating. Instead I come off weird and desperate. Hooray.

Maybe instead of cultivating charm, I should focus on being singularly annoying. I'm already pretty annoying by nature; it wouldn't take much to become a virtuoso. Much easier, and ultimately, far more satisfying than being impressive. Hm. Maybe that's my calling. Annoying people. And it fits into that whole "follow your bliss" thing. I really, really like irritating people. It's candyful.

But, alas, no job offers yet for being intolerable. So still no Life Plan.

Hmph.

1.12.04