The Problem with Talking About Yourself

On Wednesday I started what I hoped would be a fairly simple exercise. I began writing what was supposed to be an entry about my origins to be posted on my birthday. Needless to say it did not get posted. As of this moment it has been edited into two separate pieces, one concerning myself and the other discussing my family, each about 4 pages and still not finished. I have a feeling this project may take more effort and writing stamina then I have interest.
To be honest, my life’s story is really not all that interesting. Sure, it sucks worse then many out there, but at the same time, many have had much, much worse. What’s more those people with the really crappy origins are only truly interesting once they make something of themselves.
I certainly haven’t made anything of myself. Although, truth be told, those rags to riches stories get boring after awhile. It’s the same plot with different details. Person had crappy childhood, person worked hard and didn’t give up, even though someone is usually telling them to and viola, all their dreams come true. Of course, there is another version, which generally revolves around some dingbat that is absurdly beautiful and somehow lands in a pile of cash, but that’s not the one they try to teach you in school.
I am neither a hard worker nor an absurdly beautiful maiden (or whore), which pretty much puts me up shit creek without a paddle.
I think what most people can generally be pegged, not by who they are but by what they want and how close they’ve come to getting it. If their dreams have come true, most likely they cheated to get it. Occasionally they came by it honestly, but half the time they find it may have looked good from a distance, but it’s rotten at the core.
So what’s my dream come true? That’s easy. A husband that adores me, plenty of children, the means to be well supported with some nice perks now and then, and maybe a horse. Actually, I should probably be a little more specific about the guy, in the most honest I can be, he would be that white knight in shining armor that will save me from a life of penury and stress. Of course the likelihood of any of this coming true is slim to nil and at the moment, I’m almost o.k. with that.
Since I am no where close to having my particular dream come true, that tells you one of three possibilities. One is that such a dream is impossible, two is that I don’t know how to go from point a (current situation) to point b (dream) or three, I’m lazy as all get out and haven’t made the effort.
I tend to think, for myself, its either one or three, although sometimes I’ll let myself think its two for a little esteem perk.
As for writing about myself? Well, I suppose I’ll get there in the end. I’m still stressing over it and trying to figure it out. Maybe I’ll actually get annoyed enough with it to do some sort of outline and organize it into some semblance of order. Maybe I’ll get distracted by something shiny and new in the next few days and forget that it’s on my computer.
As for my 26th birthday…
I woke up in Aaron’s arms, I spent the day sleeping and writing the never ending, never published blog and then gathered up all my personal papers and memento’s and went back to Aaron’s. Instead of letting my favorite guy take me to dinner, I sat on his bed and looked at pictures and ate the pizza he ordered in defeat. Poor guy, I stumped him one on that day. I just couldn’t get over the question I think everyone should ask themselves on their birthday, “Where did I come from?” “Where am I going?” and the most important, “Who the hell am I?”
I probably won’t figure it out this year, but maybe one day…