I Am Insatiable
I want the likes, the challenge, the double shot of vodka in my lemon drop martini, on the rocks. I want to write at a bar, order and sip, write and publish, make people's jaws drop at my prose, my ability to shock and make noise in the literary world.
I just wrote a letter to someone and sealed it with a kiss, but isn't that how everything is on the internet? You put forth writing on a writing website, and people click 'like', without knowing that your saliva is all over the font, the punctuation kicking me in the gut every time someone comments.
I don't get recognized for my writing, or maybe I do. There's a condom ad where a dad is at a grocery store, and his toddler is throwing a temper tantrum, throwing all the produce on the ground, screaming and causing a scene. I wonder if my writing is used somewhere as caution, use protection, never whine and complain about your WASP life, because you have everything.
I am thirty-one. In one month, I turn thirty-two. Pretty obvious, right? Except that it’s not that easy when you’re suicidal, pushing the limits of your serotonin. When do I get famous? Probably never, and that‘s okay, that’s the logistics of both my genetic lottery and this game I play where I write out my feelings.
I am insatiable. I want to be the greatest writer ever created, until I look at the writing of Ernest Hemingway, and my dog who I named after him (we call him "Ern"), and see that his corgi legs are too small to hold the weight of my expectations about myself, that the real Ernest Hemingway is somewhere looking down, but not at me, at everyone else who wants a place in history.
This is all great, I'm sure - you'll hit the "like" button, or move on, or just forget this post ever got written. I'll drink my martini, the one I made a double, because the bartender asked, and I had nothing to lose - and now, I press "publish" and hold my breath that someone reads this and isn't lost in my line of thinking.