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So here I am, I am forty years old. Is it time to begin?
Could I build a career, take myself seriously, do I even know how? I do know how, and could advise another, but when it comes to myself, I always ALWAYS make the purposeful misstep. I am amazingly good at it. Some part of me does not want to succeed. The unknown is threatening. Nothing ever really makes me happy, I know that. I have enjoyed the fantasy of success in the past, but now even that makes me feel tired. Literally, I get tired; it's like this dense fog of distaste and reluctance (oh nooo) settles over me, gets my hair wet. But sometimes the reality isn't so bad. I never know what's going to suck or when, precisely. I just know that I hate it and that it tends to come with new experiences. Ergo.
So. But. I mean, why not anyway? I am forty years old. My skin is crepe-y. Death, the cobra, rises up before me, does a little dance. What are you waiting for, baby? The show's almost over. The curtain is heavy and must come down.