coming to terms with being a loser
and being genuinely happy about it
I am a loser. I do not feel like a loser but I think I have come to terms with how much I have failed and lost. I have not achieved much. I want to make a new… thing. I’ve been making a lot of physical 1-dimensional art pieces… but you probably will not buy it and you do not care. It makes me happy but I don’t think it makes anyone…anything. So therefore; loser. I am a loser.
I began to journal again, because being a loser is a problem.
But I concluded that it is not very healthy for me because I ruminate about the same damn problems. “Why is this? Why is that? And Why?” -maxxing. Socratescore. In her Rodian Roskolnikov era frfr.
So, I cement a new regulation; picking specific topics to write about.
But then that motivated the spiraling thoughts which inevitably morphs into ranting about everything I do not like about that specific person, or situation or me.
And then, this thought accrued to me:
Why can’t I simply be grateful for life?
I have the fundamentals. I have my body, shelter, food. I know a couple people I can point to and call my friends. And I’m not a virgin. Isn’t that enough?
Why did my generation also collectively agree on also picking a specific career when understanding the money machine is broke.
UGH.
It’s always about money for me. That’s why I chose the stage name coinshortage…but I do not want to make any out of admiration for my views. I am a broke starving artist.
But I have to go back to work which isn’t my art. My seasonal job of the season. And I am free tomorrow.
Anyone feeling like a placeholder lately? I always feel so temporary. So unimportant to anyone except for me. Am I a bad hang or do I give off that loathsome energy? It probably stems from my signature bushy brows clashing with fear of imperfection.
And then I begin the next day as a temporarily freed woman. I crave to doodle. But in a performative way. As if I’m in a movie.
I bike to a cafe in the hipster bicycle-friendly part of Logan Square. I pick a cozy table against the wall. I mark my territory with all the other kinesthetic activities I can gravitate towards if I am low on my mania. An aged word search book my mom purchased for me at the O’Hare airport circa 2014, a book I’ve read 10 pages of, stickers, another notebook filled with expired ideas for movies and television shows I had, and my sweet sweet iPhone 13. The last item I pull out my Mary Poppins-adjacent backpack is a composition notebook I acquired from the Dollar Tree. T o restart my mission once more. And I write about my day.
Lalalalalala! Feeling it! I love being alive! I feel the rush of oxytocin or dopamine or whatever the fuck chemical in my frontal lobe (it’s probably all the weed). I watch the page grow with my very big fancy words. Sure, I have to Google them to make sure I’m using those very 50-point words right or even if I’m spelling them correctly…
But I am doing it.
My child-self would be so proud. The progress of my vocabulary, my acknowledgement of the outside world. I am basically God or whatever.
But all of a sudden, a loud conversation erupts my bubble - It’s a dad. With his twin daughters. He tells them to keep the chatter down for everyone around us. Everyone - not exaggerating- was remotely working or working remotely.
Family. Ew. I do not like children. This cafe is cold. This cafe emits the “please do not bring your kids here” vibe. But they shortly leave and they were not annoying. I am just a very overstimulated person, like everybody else.
I stopped caring about my goal to doodle altogether and I look around. Everyone looks so put together. Quiet. Clacking away on their laptops. I can sense their stability. Their calm nature. My heart dropped as I ordered my smoothie and a shot of espresso for 15 dollars. Which is a fair price, but to who really.
“It was stressing me out, so I decided I didn’t care” the ashy blonde straight long-haired woman confides to the woman with the dark brown straight long hair.
The clean brunette responded with “Totally”
Fuck these people. Seriously, fuck everyone in this cafe.
They don’t know it, but I’m going to be the next big thing. And I am eavesdropping on them, and making fun of their lack of awareness they have on themselves, juxtaposing their own affirmations. And I am going to write about all of them!
Money makes the world go round! The world go round! The world go round!
Money, money, money always funny in a rich man’s world!
If I was a rich girl, nanananananananananananananana!!
MONEY MONEY PLEASE I WANT MONEY.
I WANT TO BE BOTH THESE WOMAN COMBINED.
I WANT TO SELL LUXURY APARTMENT COMPLEXES. I SEE THE TABS ON THEIR LAPTOPS. THEY’RE LOOKING AT MODERN APARTMENTS.
WEAR STRAPLESS TANK TOPS WITH LEATHER PANTS.
I WANT A BOYFRIEND IN FINANCE THAT CAN TAKE ME TO FUCKING SPAIN AND THEN RIGHT BACK WITHOUT GUILT-TRIPPING ME.
ONE COLLARBONE CURSIVE TATTOO PLEASE! PLEASE!
PLEASE! GOD, IF YOU’RE THERE. PLEEEEEEAAAASE!!!!
You’re not there. That’s fine. You’re busy. Or whatever. My wish was selfish and I will never be them that’s coo. That is way cool dog. Did go to church for a while. Like my entire adolescent but…whateva.
I need a job.
But I do not want a job. I am a leftist. And I love sustainability and blue hair and art and non-substantial emotional things.
When I do have a job, I look at the clock. I feel my skin slowly getting drier, droopier, less elasticity. I feel my soul getting sucked into the vat to keep this ever crumbling economy afloat.
I just want to make a fucking movie. And I want to move. I want to write another play. And be sexy. For me. Obviously. I want to be big. But small. Me.
I know I am special. I am special baby! I am ethereal and Ludacris. Jason Derulo! Abominable.
I want to be the funniest woman alive. But I want to be underground. But I want to be better than him. I want to be better than her. But I have to stop comparing myself to others. That’s so toxic. But being toxic could be my thing. Well no, having a toxic-awareness scale is already my thing. I have to start networking. God if I were Monica Lewinsky, I would have made shirts out of my scandal.
“Are you working today?” is a common question my family asks me as I jump from job to job.
Haven’t been in a thing in a while. Acting in a thing everyday if you catch my drift. I want to act. I love acting. I’m pretty bad at it. Or maybe I’m really good but bad. Nicholas Cage. Or is there a female-equivalent to Nicholas Cage? I always wanted to be a Disney Star. I took an embarrassing amount of improv classes. I even volunteered to perform improv at children’s hospital even though I hate children! I did have to stop because I think anybody stuck in a hospital would much prefer getting their entertainment through other means than a group of 30-50 year olds who graduated from Second City.
I should take an acting class. But acting classes are low-key super embarrassing. But being bad at acting is super embarrassing. Plus I spent the rest of my allowance on a XSport Gym membership instead. Maybe I should cancel it. I never use it. Because I’m a loser.
I go on Chess.com when I’m stressed. I lose at chess. A lot. That is my new skill I have developed because I was hired as an afterschool chess instructor through Indeed.
Yes, I taught chess to children. Even though I’m bad at chess. And teaching. And with children. I think I just hate children because I’m not good with children. Which is weird because I perceive myself to be childlike…whimsical if you will. Which sucks, because as a woman, I feel as if I have to know how to work with children. Being a performing artist is basically ending up as a substitute teacher…
OKAY MAYBE I LIKE BEING A LOSER ACTUALLY???
I don’t know if I should be announcing that I like being a loser. What are the qualifications of being a loser? Who said you should be a loser? Or is it be an idiot? I don’t know, not Googling. I like being a loser! How freeing!
I should just post a picture of my vagina on OnlyFans already. I would kill myself if I only get 10 dollars. And it’d be probably someone trying to share the JPEG around at my old work place. And my ex-peers would have a ball and laugh . “Why does it look like that?” I honestly would love the attention.
Do I love being a loser? Being a rebel or a victim? It’s all perspective, huh.
All I know is that I need to bum a cigarette from someone right when I visit New York again. If I ever visit. Move there. Move back here. Move to California. Maybe try Tennessee. Montreal, Canada. Back to Chicago… I’ve never moved. How do you move? I can’t even move ON. I can’t even plan this out. This is also irrelevant. Who will read this? What is your intention on reading this? I should begin to write smut. Mmmmhhh smut. Shameless intelligent smut. Like whatever our moms’ read on our roadtrips. My mom’s a smart lady.
She has a really important job. She’s a sonographer. That’s the job where you scan babies, and bellies in general, to see if everything’s in the right place inside of you. That’s a really cool and niche job. But I don’t like touching people. Or gore. Or babies. Or hospitals. Which is also why I stopped doing improv at children’s hospitals. Seeing those poor kids strapped to an IV bag in pain while you’re attempting to portray a family on vacation at Disney World. It feels derogatory. One kid gave me the suggestion of “d*ke”. The parents laughed along. I also stopped doing improv at hospitals because of that kid. You can’t curse out a kid who is attached to a bunch of breathing apparatuses.
Welp, here were are. I tried to help. I purchases and read a handful of self-care books. I changed my major multiple times. I learned, I laughed, I felt. And I dealt. And here we are…
With whatever. I have a Polish cousin who is currently studying how to cure cancer and here I am. I have many friends who work in Big Tech and here I am. I watch as all my past relationships bind themselves to their soulmates, with their new arising projects they committed to harder than they ever committed to me. But. Here. I. Am.
Nothing to show but my delusion. So am I a loser?
Yeah. This is pretty much loser behavior. Harping on someone’s very own life like this? Could be covering wider, more transcendental topics. I could have been writing that screenplay. But I chose to rant once more. For that is all I know.
Because I am a loser.
Hopefully one day I can be conditionally grateful. Or unconditionally grateful. Maybe it’s my slavic nature. Maybe it’s my permanent pessimism. Maybe I need to start all over. Wash my body clothes: HOLES (reference to the last Substack article, real fans would know this).
But at least for now, I am going to Grad School to learn how to use a fucking real industry-level camera. At 24. And am working on banning marijuana and blacking out permanently from my life. And I will be a star. Mia Goth - Pearl.
I’M A FUCKING STAAAAAAAAAR.
Period. No cap. And I am, proudly. Losing.
And I’m badabababa loving it. Loathing it. Feeling it.
Okay yeah I’m done. In conclusion…
I am a loser.
But being a loser makes the victories so much more special.
Also hot chess tip: Never resign in chess….
Nice