If you ever want to know how truly lame you are, just crack open an old journal. I was going over some today and came across this entry…
***Warning: there’s a few roll-eyes and gag worthy moments. Actually the entire entry is pretty ridiculous. I shouldn’t be posting this but I’m going to. Read at your own risk.
Allow me to set the stage with this photo:
“Sitting along most nights in my apartment I consider this strange life I now lead. I have money in the bank. I no longer have to worry about paying rent. I have editorial spreads, I have enviable runway credits, my face is on billboards, busses, phone booths and magazine covers. I am all over the place. I have arrived! …I think?
I think that I just don’t understand the meaning of success. I mean, I think I have it. I’m supposed to be happy right? I have a reputation. I’m dating one famous person after another. I’ve flown the concorde and private jets. I stay in some of the most beautiful hotels in the world. I party like a serious rock star. I’ve drunk only champagne for a week straight. I’ve danced with the stars. My parents are proud of me and they have the proof in pictures that their daughter has made it. And yet, I am still all alone and this chaos surrounding me is just confusing me more. I still don’t feel I have a friend. That’s what I want is a girlfriend. Why don’t I ever feel safe to be with people?”
So that’s the angst-y self-pity mindset I found myself in. Woe is me, I’m 21 and can’t find a friend amongst all this awesomeness. Ugh. It’s so embarrassing to read now but I really felt like that then.
My life has changed. Friends routinely smack me upside the head when I forget about all the blessings that surround me today, as I expect them to do so now, journal entry ex post facto.