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November 10, 2009 / Meredith

I’m A Loser Baby, So Why Don’t You Kill Me*

OK, you two people out there who are reading this blog, I’m back at it, at least for one boring post. Boring because I have absolutely nothing to offer. Nothing. I’m an empty vessel. I’m a shell. I’m a big, fat loser.

I found out today that one of my best friends made it to the top. Her life has been one miraculous happening after another. She married the man of her dreams. She bore four children who are about the cutest things alive. She’s smart enough to home school these kids. She’s a wonderful cook. She’s a fabulous photographer. And to top all that off, she blogs every single day. More than once. Her blog has different tabs! Big deal, you say. OK, the blogging thing isn’t really the top of the success list. She wrote a cookbook that is now on the New York Times best seller list at…#1.

Now you two people who are reading this know I don’t actually have a best friend who achieved all this. But that’s what  religiously reading blogs has done to me. I’ve been reading this chick’s blog for a long time now, and I feel like I know her. Never mind how blogs aren’t necessarily a true reflection on one’s real life, she’s telling a story and sticking to it, so as far as I’m concerned I know this girl as well as if I had grown up with her.

She’s traveling around the country on a big book signing tour, getting all sorts of praise and worship from her thousands of fans. I also found out she’ll be in my town for a signing. I thought about seeing her at that venue but then I realized the truth of the matter. I would buy her book and stand in line for hours waiting for her signature. Not only would she ask my name, when I tell it to her she wouldn’t blink. She wouldn’t recognize it from all the comments I’ve left on her blog. She’d be better off identifying one cow in a heard of eleventy thousand than she would me. What a crushing blow that would be.

Before you go thinking how I’m being all selfish about this, and petty and jealous, let me just say that yes, I am small enough to be jealous about this and it is indeed all about me. I mean, there is no one in the world more worthy of fame and fortune than I am. I want it more than anyone and yet I have to sit back and watch little miss I-Didn’t-Even-Have-To-Try get it all.**

So I sit here with nothing to say except that I’ll never measure up to the blogging queen my best friend has become. I’ll never be able to capture the hearts of millions with pictures of my cute little offspring because, well, as you know I’m barren. I’ll never write a book that will make it to the New York Times best seller list, much less the number one spot because I’m so consumed with envy I’m left with a writer’s block worthy of a case of scotch, meaningless, tawdry sex with cabana boys in Key West, and a pistol with one bullet meant only to put me out of my misery. ***

Except that part about drunken sex with cabana boys isn’t all bad, is it? 

* These are actual song lyrics; I don’t really want you to kill me.

** Upon a reread of this post I realize this sounds really snarky and mean. I don’t really hate her, I hate myself, and anyone who’s ever had a shred of psychology training would know that.

*** Again, I have no intention of harming myself or others, so call off the men in the white coats.

The End


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