My Monkeys

There’s a saying that I really like: “Not my monkeys, not my circus.” Except that, at the moment, they are my monkeys. My stupid, retarded, fugly monkeys. And this is my circus. My circus that no one wants to come to because it sucks. I'm pretty sure the clowns are doing drugs behind the elephant tent, and the bearded lady keeps shaving. 

This weekend I kept getting very frustrated for all the usual reasons. Last week was pretty much shit better to forget, and today hasn't been very nice to me either. People seem to find it necessary to remind me what a horrible person I am. I might be able to cope with that if it wasn't quite so many people all at once. 

It’s also become apparent that we’re not going to be ready for the market in 2 weeks, which means my deal is off. My deal was that if we could do the market for October, November, and December, and we didn’t make a profit I’d start applying for a real job again. Since we’re apparently not going to be ready, I can’t really hold off the inevitable anymore. 

I also came to a sobering reality: no one has ever been interested in anything I’ve ever done. Steve spent Saturday working on the website, and I suddenly realized how many things I’ve made over the years that no one is interested in. I may get a passing glance or a pity comment, but no one is buying. No one gives two fucks. So regardless of if we could be part of the market, the reality is that my stuff, at least, will never generate profit. And yes, that’s incredibly depressing because I just can’t help but fail- which sucks big time. But if I can somehow live with that and stop this stupid nonsense that I am anything but a grey person, maybe I can finally find some peace.

You see, through all this depression and failure, there’s always been this burning, albeit fragile, flame in me that says I’m more than just another blob on the Earth. There’s something special that I can share with the world. The thing is, there really isn’t. I’m ok at some things, but I’m not great at anything. I don’t inspire people, and no one even notices when I’m not around. 

And sometimes it really sucks to have a husband who believes my dreams despite all evidence to the contrary. 

Just when I thought I could be ok with being just another grey blob, having a job that I hate like everyone else, he gets me talking about all the things that I could do if we lived in a perfect world where I could actually succeed at things. Which would be great if I wasn't trying to forget all the things I want to do, and just do the things I'm supposed to do.

Today I had a few people ask about Batty4Arts. One even wrote the web address down, so I guess that's cool. I just don't know how to deal with anything right now. Personally, I just want to crawl in bed and order take out until I forget who I am and who others think I am.