I lost a quarter.
In two months I shall be irrevocably closer to 30 than to 20.
I shall have lost a quarter of my life (it’s actually more, but for calculation purposes, I’m assuming I shall be a hundred….and ugly), with nothing to show for it.
I did not achieve brilliance. I did not even achieve mediocrity in a different fashion.
I did not get anywhere closer to being who I am supposed to be. Or rather, what my idea of ‘me’ is.
I wonder if discontent is healthy. Like all things, there must be a minimum recommended dosage for it. Maybe four teaspoons of it, to be mixed with equal amounts of disillusionment and self-loathing. The whole to be taken three times a day with your meals and to be turned to ashes.
But I did achieve notoriety.
That should help me be a bit happier.
Though, I doubt it would be the same emotion for others who have a vested interest in my life eg: parents, boyfriend, other guys who seem to like me and even the one or two friends I have managed to retain.
I wonder why it is necessary for me to be drunk when I spill out my venom against myself. I suppose it is a self-defence mechanism. If nothing else, it channels the rage into less-violent pathways.
What will be the point of reaching yet another milestone?
It’s a long road and I see no end.