Chances are, by writing all this, I'm jinxing it, but what the heck, I'll toss a barrel of salt over my shoulder later.
Here's what I want to do in 2009.
- Attend L'oreal Melbourne Fashion show March 15-22
- Take French for Beginners lessons from CAE February 12 - June 11
- Machine Sewing for Beginners February 23 - March 30
- Take Introductory to Fashion & Drawing from Whitehouse Institute of Design 29 June - 3rd July
Roughly estimated costs: $2,226
Yeah. I'll probably not be doing any of that.
The spirit is willing, but the bank account is weak.
Its horrible, to feel like I've only started on my life so late in the game. No longer feeling like everything is possible...and instead walls of limitation, chains of restraint and that dreadful plague of responsibility comes crashing down to bury me in debt and fear.
Terrible, it is, to know that I have no worthy skills or talents that I can market a future upon. I am actually mediocre in everything. I am a Jill of all trades. I can sew a button, but I can't make an entire garment. I can draw a straight line, but I am no Monet. I can cook instant noodles, but I can't make creme brulee. I can write, but I am no Virginia Woolf. I can dress, but I'm not as creative as Susie Bubble or KOS or Sea of Shoes.
As naive as it is, I believe that every person has a purpose in life in which only they can fulfil - whether it be ambition wise or by being someone in another person's life. Approaching a quarter of a century, still studying while everyone else my age is working/married/popping out their second child, I'm coming around to the conclusion that my purpose in life is to be charmingly mediocre.
I blame my childhood self.
Whenever I was asked that shootmybrainsout question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I only had two answers, depending on the ask-er.
If it were an elder, busybody, nose grub:
"I wanna be a road sweeper."
If it were a friend, confidante, or someone I wanted to cheer up:
But I failed to specify! So in the end, I'm probably going to end up as:
A road sweeper, rich in a plethora of garbage.
I just remembered that sweeping with a broom gives me blisters.
Someone kill me already, put me out of my mediocre misery. I only request that you use this.
Mediocre, over and out.