The thing is, I will not be famous. I will continue to go unrecognized in grocery store aisles and record stores. No one will hyperventilate and scream my name from across the street. There will be no articles about how I'm the Next Big Thing, how I'm the unique voice of my generation or how I'm the product of a nice, solid Midwestern family with a history of female depression. Ted Casablanca won't feature me in his gossip column and the Fashion Police will not rave about my savvy pairing of big red boots with black dresses, betty bangs, and polyester pants. I will not be invited to any movie premieres or award show festivities. Valentino and Givenchy aren't going to be clamoring to fit me in imported silk and chiffon anytime soon. I will never be friends with Angelina or share a smoke with Shirley. I won't get to swap gothic style secrets with Amy or get backstage passes to hang with Trent. And I certainly will not have a fucked-up affair with Johnny Depp. They won't search my journals for sordid secrets once I am dead. No one will buy the movie rights to the books written about my life, either, because there aren't going to be any books. There is just going to be me and my small life. My blue suitcase of old journals and my green velvet blankbook of half-thoughts and ideas for the next line in the next poem. There's just going to be another day like this one. Husband. Dog. Fog rolling in from the ocean, down the street. But as long as the words still come when I call, well, all of that is just fine by me... |
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