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Potentially Deleted Tomorrow
I used to be inspired by my potential. Now I feel smothered by it. If I were to be a Psychiatrist as I had originally intended, would I be happy? If I were to go back to school and just get an associate’s degree in veterinary medicine, would I be satisfied? Would I feel I’m up to my own standards? I mean - I expect others to be educated and employed in some sort of lucrative career, but I’m not. I don’t want to be. I do…but I don’t. I’m embarrassed when surrounded by professionals and have to admit that I’m a…nothing. Me? Oh, I’m in the nothing business. No, I don’t have kids. No, I’m not a housewife. I know I have the potential to best them all, but “Potentially Better Than You” doesn’t make a good title on a business card.
Honestly, I’ve never wanted to work. I’ve always wanted a rich husband. Does that make me a hypocrite? Does that make me a victim of fairytales, immature, lazy, or spoiled? Does it make me stupid? Because those are all the things I feel when I admit to myself that all I want to do with my potential is be someone’s wife. The only thing I want to use my brain for is to pick a suitable mate. The perfect mate. And the funny thing is - I don’t even believe in the institution of marriage.
Options. Another word for potential. I might as well say it since nothing past this point will make much sense if I don’t. Clint and I are on rocky ground. We’ve been on and off since I was 19, but this is different. This is life-changing. When I told him my thoughts on the matter, he became depressed. I’ve never seen Clint depressed. I told him that before I made any decisions, we would try couple’s counseling. He felt better. He said that if I ever left him, he’d want to have his testicles removed so that he could never love someone as much as he loves me. At least we have one thing in common: we known where love comes from.
So what if I do leave Clint? I’ll have to work. He has promised to always support me financially, but not only would it still change my lifestyle, but it would be incredibly insensitive on my part to make him re-live “us” every time he made a deposit into my bank account. What if I fall in “love” with someone who isn’t rich? I didn’t plan for this. I didn’t plan to ever fall out of love, and even if I had, it’d be a futile attempt to plan for something which to someone in love is as likely to happen as Armageddon.
I’ve been reminiscing about old friends and lovers. Stalking them online to see how their lives turned out. I saw a picture of my first love. He’s an assistant principal at an elementary school. He was always good with kids. He married one of my best high school friend’s cousin. She’s a teacher. They have a son. They’re a cute little family. He’s as gorgeous and sexy as ever…and now a very bittersweet frequent visitor in my dreams.
Thanks to Facebook, I know that my best high school friend is very happy. I know we’d have very little in common if we were to reconnect - if I were to somehow unburn that bridge. I used to burn bridges a lot. My past is an entirely separate part of me. It used to a part I thought of on extremely rare occasions, but lately it’s all I can think about because in a way, my past could become my future.
There are plenty of “what could have been’s.” Two people I’ve loved, employment opportunities I’ve passed up to be funemployed… Yet more than what could have been’s, I’m thinking of what could possibly be’s. Options. Potential. I’m a blank slate. When I was younger, I used to always have one or two people on the back burner. Some poor guy(s) I’d flirt with just enough to keep interested while staying as platonic as possible while keeping them pining for me. I was awful. But…a net would be kind of nice right now as I’m free-falling into the unknown. I’m vulnerable. And I don’t fucking like it. Isn’t Batman going to swoop in and catch me? Isn’t Prince Charming going to ride in on his white horse and carry me off? Aren’t I going to be a prostitute and make Richard Gere fall in love with me? WHERE IS MOTHERFUCKING HAPPY ENDING?! You know, fairytales never really have an ending, do they? Lives don’t end when they ride off into the sunset - they just begin.
So, where’s my god damned beginning?
