1 divorce + 1 great kid + 1 meteoric career + 1 crash landing = 0
I’m instructed by my attorney not to speak to anyone. So, the disclaimer borrowed from legal folks:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Every asshole starts sounding like another. I guess that’s why these phrases are necessary. So does every horrible job, pain in the ass boss, soulless co-worker, and politician. Mistakes start sounding the same too – yours and mine. We love watching each other’s mistakes too. Just look at the parade of television judge shows which I will admit complete indulgence in for the first three weeks of my 39th year. Whose baby daddy is really not the daddy, and what makes a dad? The truth eludes everyone making celebrities of those who know how to interpret polygraph tests. Disclaimers such as, “I ain’t no [Jerry] Springer ho…” are shouted while the audience waits with baited breath: “Mr. so and so…. you are… [dramatic pause] the father” – “The results show that so and so… was…not being truthful.” I can’t look away. Abject on the screen.
And yet, the distance between me and the women who ain’t no Springer ho is pretty scant.
Which is why my mind keeps circling back as I take stock of nearly four decades of what has been an incredibly painful, irritatingly poignant, unremarkable, yet surprising existence to rest on the nagging question: “Oh my god. Am i just a loser?”
Well, so what if I am, no? Ok.
True, but then what have I been working so hard and struggling and stressing out about for the first four decades?
I forgot one more thing to the equation: 1 experience of falling in love.
Is the score +1 now?