So no to Oprah, then.
In the future I'll say "I used to live in Florida" and this announcement will be followed by eye-rolling and a shudder. I'll go on to tell about mediocrity and the lack of any sort of enthusiasm. I'll wax poetic about the overabundance of rebel "Southern pride" rather than American ones. The world will hear of how I struggled to get laid, struggling against the tyrannies of disgusting leering men old enough to be my dad's dad and young pretty people who were far too young to even look upon. I'll tell incredible stories on Oprah, and she'll dab her eyes as I trace my fingers over my tattoos, gathering up the nerve to ask if there are any single good-looking people in the audience, remembering I have about fifteen minutes until a long dark car comes to take me away.
Okay, that's bullshit. I'd never go on Oprah, I'm too evil. Also, she pretty much never has anyone hot in her audience, and I don't do limos.
Recently I went to my second job, waiting in line for an overpriced smoothie with my free smoothie coupon, and I spotted a young lad (about age nine) that looked exactly like Julian Lennon. I stared, then blinked when he looked over at me, then froze in shock when he stared at my chest for about a full minute. To be fair he IS male, and I started becoming aware of sexual things myself when I was about seven or eight. Plus, having a large C-cup will get you those kinds of stares. Still, I wanted to assure the boy the stare wasn't a sexual one, that he looked like a famous singer whose dad was even more famous, has he ever even heard of the Beatles? He'd looked away, already bored while his mom fretted with two hyper little girls, his younger sisters. He'd already become comfortable in his role as the stoic, too-cool handsome older brother.
Therefore I was left sipping anxiously at my smoothie a few minutes later, hoping I hadn't caused this boy psychological grief.
I've gone back and deleted my "I'm feeling shitty" posts, because I overreacted, and who cares? If not me, then certainly no one else. I don't feel shitty now, just anxious, which I sort of enjoy. Anxiety at its best leads to productivity.
Which reminds me, I haven't written a damned thing for my novel yet.
I want a smoothie.