…Baby One More Time
Sometimes I know how it feels to be Britney Spears.
It happens like this.
I am suddenly and completely overwhelmed with unhappiness, but not smart enough to articulate what is wrong. I am cognizant of all the things I have not done and do not understand, but I’m too exhausted to seek them out and force-feed myself an education in adulthood. Instead, I let other people do things for me, let them coddle me into a passive stupor. But through this daze, I remain painfully aware of the books going unread in my bookshelves, and the bridges I have not burned, but allowed to collapse with neglect. And I am desperate for attention, obsessed with my appearance, tearing out my hair and taking off my clothes. I am consumed with self-promotion for an anonymous audience - future employers, future lovers, future people on the sidewalks of streets. They are people who do not exist, will never exist because I will never live in the present. I will never say “Here I am. I am enough.” No, I will bottle my discouragements one by one and and make the same mistakes I have made before. I will sell myself to myself like a piece of propaganda and you will believe it, and I will almost believe it.
