My contribution to the literary world has seemed to make some incredibly myopic individuals inherently uncomfortable. It’s always reassuring to know I’m good at my job.
But the truth is, no one cares. Especially not me. What I’ve learned from this life that has been quite rich in experience is that, no one gives a shit. No one gives a shit if you’re divorced. No one gives a shit if you’re married. No one gives a shit if you own or rent your home. No one gives a shit how long you stay at your job, or what car you drive, or the amount of savings in your bank account, or how much you contribute to your 401k, or the people you slept with. Quite literally, no one cares. The fact is, the people who want to pass the most judgement on an “out of the ordinary” life are the ones that are realizing they have fell for the most basic existence, steeped in routine and monotony. The ones spreading the most gossip about the hardships you’ve endured I guarantee are the ones most likely trying to deflect from their own bullshit and personal guilt.
It’s astounding in this day and age how many people are still sold on the idea that their asset accumulation is what determines the amount of personal success or value they hold. When the reality is, some of them have never even achieved going further than a 10 mile radius outside the one stop light town they grew up in. Stuck inside their very average beige house with its very predictable “live laugh love” interior. They drive their very ordinary four door vehicle to their very lonely factory job. They have a very average 750 credit score to finance their very common weekend activities, all while married to a very plain man that resembles the back of a thumb. And they wear it as a badge of honor as if it’s something to be achieved.
This may be hard for some to digest, but your credit score and the shit you’ve financed with it doesn’t follow you to beyond the grave. And I can guarantee no one will be at your funeral bragging about what you’ve achieved in this life.
I never have been one to buy into that kind of monotonous living. Call me crazy, but I’d rather see the world and live spontaneously than split a mortgage and have predictable sex with a man that has a receding hairline, a potbelly, and a middle-school education. It’s just never been the dream for me. I’m guilty of drinking a lot of kool-aid in my day, but that one never got me for long, luckily.
My value as a woman and the gifts that I bring to this place isn’t defined by the fact that I don’t own my own home or work a 9 to 5 with at 401k to match. I don’t care in the slightest that I’ve had debts, an STD, divorce, abortions, a bankruptcy, failed relationships, or that I still rent and probably will have to for some time given this current economic climate. I suppose I am just secure enough to know my personal currency or value isn’t attached to the type of vehicle I drive, my past sexual relationships, or whether the home I live in is rented or with a 30 year fucking mortgage.