I made 27.08 today. I think that's pretty good. Actually, no. I made 47.08 today. Even better. First I played for the cantata at the Filipino church, which was mind numbingly dull and quite out of tune, but which furnished a delightful potluck, several hot guys, and the piece de resistance, a fake credit card for 20 bucks. So that was charming and all. Then I went to busk in the street (with le family) where all the rich people live (about 45 minutes away, so no one recognized us). We made more than a hundred dollars there, but we had to split it. Oh well. It was actually quite fun. I put on about five pounds of extra garments to stave off the inclement weather, and I looked as bulky and masculine as I have ever looked in my life. I could barely raise my arms (which made it hard to play, but such are the trials of manly men such as I). This brings my Christmas season gig counter up to about 18. Not bad, I'd say, but it seems paltry compared to what could be. Like, I mean, what if I went up and down the streets caroling my unfortunate neighbors until the break of dawn? I could do it. They might not recognize me if I disguise myself heavily. Or, even better, I could drive a couple towns over and spread the cheer of the season there. I would drift through like the proverbial tumbleweed and float past on the chilly December breeze before anyone could arrest me for trespassing or being a public nuisance. I like this plan. Makes me seem like one of these cool-ass ghosts. I'll just change my name to Ephemeral Effie or Pearl the Poltergeist, grow a handlebar mustache, don a pair of spurs, and ride off into the sunset like the BAMF that I am. No more will it be all quiet on the Western front, rather, the Western front will glow with holiday spirit and cheer. I wish everyone could think up nice practical plans for brightening up the world like me.
Zac is home for the holidays now, at least in spirit, although his corporeal being is often in actuality blessing someone else's home. He is almost never home, and when he is, he makes it clear that he does not want to be. I often wonder why he bothers gracing us with his presence at all. Uncharitably, I might venture to guess that it is because he wants to talk about himself. He does seem to do it a lot. Not once in four years has he asked me about my life, nor Kitty about hers. However, he has frequently gotten offended when we have neglected to inquire about his. On the rare occasions when he eats dinner with our family, conversation revolves completely about him and his friends. I now know more about his classmates than I do about mine. If someone ventures to bring up a topic that doesn't pertain to Zac in some way, he will either roll his eyes, make frightening faces, make beautiful comments such as, "Cool story bro," and "No offense, but who cares?" and sarcastically decry the lack of intelligence present in our family circle, or ignore the comment entirely and sweep on with more (oft-repeated) tales about his excellence. To hear him tell it, he is possessed of every desirable trait known to man. Proud as I am of him for making all his grad school pre-screenings, I feel I have heard all I need to about them, and though I am happy that he has found innumerable friendships at school, I don't feel that we need to dwell on them inordinately. Today, he began talking brightly of his friend Amy and her boyfriend Richard, then morphed into a discussion of his ability of using his friends for his own profit. His words were remorseful, but his tone was light, and his voice cheerful. One would have thought he was proud of his materialism (which he is). Mom interjected once that while I was at summer linguistics camp, I never had to pay for anything (except for breakfast on the first day) and I felt no regret about it. Zac didn't even deign to acknowledge this. He sniffed briefly and prissily, then launched into an anecdote about his imposition on his friend Lilith. This turned into a lecture on why Lilith is "into" him and why he is too good for her. Poor Lilith. I feel quite sorry for her. She's not alone, though. To hear him tell it, she has the company of all the female members of the music department in the rejection pile of his affections. Now, I know that my poor brother is quite insecure, and bragging about himself interminably makes him feel better, but unfortunately, I am only human, and I must humbly state that it also makes him insufferable. It is unfortunate, but there it is. Maybe someday his social skills will get better and he will be able to live up to the character he has painted for himself, but until then, he come across as naught but the most arrogant of souls.
Damn. I feel so insecure now. Not just currently (though I do currently as well), but forever. I thought I had gotten to be a strong and manly prick who cared for nothing but her own feelings, but I suppose I was wrong. It is the college search what has done this to me. No, I tell a lie. It is my own cursed human stupidity. If I were not such an ineffectual specimen, I would be far more acceptable to all society. I would be a bright shining star in the galaxy of the community, a true beacon of perfection to all the struggling masses, a paragon of every virtue conceived by man. My relatives would talk about me at dinner parties. My teachers would tout me to their other classes. My friends would look up to me. It would not be a burden to try to teach me things. I would be famous in the land. And above all, I would be the most self-absorbed of narcissists. I would probably become a raging capitalist, maybe go into industry or engineering or something (since I'd be good at everything) and become obscenely wealthy and be nominated as a Supreme Court justice without lifting a finger. Sure, my name would soon be despised by all the plebians as being synonymous with filthy lucre, but what would that matter? I would be successful. But all of this is as ash in the wind, since I am an ineffectual specimen. I am literally good for nothing. Though I have striven to hide it or pass it off as a degenerative disorder, I am as clumsy as a broom with two left feet. I often find myself in a close relationship with walls, and cracks in the ground are disastrous for my staid composure. When I look at my extremities, I am often startled to find a tapestry of multi-colored bruises decorating my skin. As if this weren't bad enough, I have no skills to speak of. I play violin and viola, but only well enough to get me cheap two-bit gigs and second-rate teaching jobs. I sing, but only well enough to land me a spot as a filler soprano who goes between first and second as the song demands it (although, to toot my own horn, I am in the top audition choir, and I beat out about forty people to get there. But still.) I can't draw, can't cook, can't knit blankets, can't even clean the house properly. I don't know how to apply makeup beyond eyeliner, and the only popular culture I follow is what comes up on the meme sites I read (or in the news sites I go to). Sports confuse me utterly, and although I want to understand car lore, I'm still stuck as to what the difference is between a V engine and an M one. But more than any of this, I'm bad at math. That's the one thing that will haunt me forever. I could ignore all my other failings if I were only adept at math. It's such a shameful matter, too. Such a ridiculous thing. Why in the world should I be bad at math? I have more opportunity than I know what to do with, and more resources for help than anyone had before. I mean, my brother is a math major, for crying out loud. Logically, I should be at the top of my class. But no. I'm the requisite dumbass of the room. I ask everyone for help, I talk to the teacher every time she's available, I read the textbook, and I study my butt off, but I've not gotten an A on a test since I was a freshman. What is wrong with me? I need to know. Maybe if I knew, I could fix it. Actually, probably not. I'm a colossal celestial joke, I think. Maybe an experiment gone wrong. Oh, was that irreverent? Probably. But I don't even know anymore. Theology is something else I'm bad at. I accrue questions at the speed of light, and of course there's no way to settle them effectually, so I'll be left wondering if I'm a flaming heretic for all time. And the worst thing is, I feel like everything I think is dreadfully sophomoric. I mean, if I have to go to hell for having heretical thoughts, shouldn't they at least be interesting heretical thoughts? It seems only decent somehow. Ugh. I hate these periods of absolute bleakness and despair. Of course, my desperately hopeless mood will pass like the rain, but it's always hanging on the periphery of my mind (also like the rain). Maybe I should take medication. Or, even better, maybe I should stop being ineffectual. Zing. That's a good one. I should take it on the road. I was born this way, and this way will I stay until the day I die. It may not be fun for me, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that it makes people like Zac look even better in comparison. According to Lucy Maude Montgomery or Louisa May Alcott or another one of these saccharine, obnoxious, pseudo-meaningful writers who proliferated during the late 19th century, this is a sacred purpose for people like me. How inspirational. I feel so much better now. Isn't it just the best to realize that your sole purpose in life is to be the antithesis of someone successful? Hits the spot. Mm gurl.Oh my. It's almost three in the morning. Well then. Goodnight, and may your heart be as blessed as is mine with the knowledge that you are valuable solely for your ineptitude. Or, if you are cursedly successful and brilliant, you can rest on your laurels knowing that I am here to provide contrast for you. Whatever the knowledge, it is thine.
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