The night is an evil, sexy bitch

I know exactly where I went wrong.

It’s the same place I always go off the rails. I come home, tipsy after an evening of visiting and chatting and drinking and eating with good friends, and I decide to hop on the computer while drinking a glass of water or two. You know, to metabolize the aforementioned alcohol. God, I’m almost semi-responsible and stuff.

But, instead of doing something good and productive with the 2 AM internet (Duolingo being my new rabbithole—I’m on Spanish level 5 and Italian level 6 as of this evening), I start reminiscing. I fire up Google, like an idiot. I google people, LIKE A FOOL.

Some folks show up. A woman whose kids I used to babysit is still a fabric artist, but she’s moved to New York; her kids are lawyers and professors. I giggle when I read that the rabbi that presided at my Bat Mitzvah returned a humanitarian award he received when the group who gave it to him later presented the same award to Ronald Reagan. He said, “If Ronald Reagan is a humanitarian, than I’m not.” Rabbi Wolf was so stinkin’ metal, you guys. I mean, with that name… he had to be, right?

Some people, I can’t find. I’m saddened, for some reason, even though I know I’m impossible to google.

That’s when the unhappiness sets in. Why am I impossible to google? Oh, right… because I haven’t done anything to tweak the world by the nose. I haven’t announced my arrival. And I don’t have a clue where to begin. (Step One might be having a first and last name that have never been in the ten most common names in the country, but oh well – my name is my name.)

When I was a kid, I took for granted that everyone would know who I was when I was an adult. At the time I figured it was because I’d be the first lady president, or an astronaut, or (and this was in my absolute wildest dreams) because I’d become the foremost princess in all the land and I would often be seen in my giant conical hat, with its distinctive scarf tied at the tip, bobbing in and out of crowds, making pronouncements or whatever it is princesses do.

Funny that my lesser dreams involved going to space and my greater ones were all about the princessdom.

Stupid darkness, stupid middle of the night crises of confidence, stupid myself holding myself back. And that’s why I’m publishing this, even though I know I’ll hate two thirds of it in the morning.

On a somewhat related note, this. According to that jerk, you don’t just get to be amazing at things (and worthy of note) by sitting around and thinking really hard about them. This is simultaneously incredibly depressing and somewhat heartening, and makes me feel a little better that last years half-assed diet only resulted in a year-end weight loss of 8 pounds, a third of which was immediately negated by my mother-in-law’s Christmas candy. Apparently, sitting around and bitching about how you haven’t lost weight and/or become a good writer isn’t enough… you actually have to, like, work at these things. Screw THAT, amirite?

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4 Comments Add yours

  1. AP says:

    Sigh.
    I totally get it. I send u a hug.

    Oh, google me: president of Liberia. Ex head of American Atheists. and…

    1. Classy Otter says:

      I accept your hug and raise you a cheek-kiss. Mwah! And how do you find the time to be so accomplished?

  2. emc says:

    And so say all of us.

    1. Classy Otter says:

      What is it with that night-time brain pain? Is it Something Above’s way of telling us that we’re supposed to be asleep? “If you don’t sleep I will send you TERRIBLE THOUGHTS.”

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