Landfill

Here I lay, sloth-like, on my blue couch drinking a raspberry hefeweizen by Schlafly. I'm just killing time before this week's episode of Game of Thrones, and thinking about my life and what I need to do to improve it. 

​Sometimes it feels like my list of flaws keep growing and growing, threatening to envelop me entirely. For every chicken breast I eat, five fizzy, wheat filled beers appear. For every painting I create, another artist creates 12 better quality works than me (or worse, 12 crappier paintings than mine, but they get paid more than me). 

I should read more. I should tackle meal-prepping head-on, I should spend less time online (already a fail) and more time making art. 

It's not me taking one step forward and two steps back. It's one rollerblade glide forward is resulting in one big huge tumble backward, down a hill, into a dumpster, carted away to a landfill, and buried in filth. Yet, each day I have to claw my way out of the landfill of mistakes I've made and try again. Am I making a difference.

Every morning I wake up and look at myself in the mirror. I look at my faded pink hair, my hazel eyes. I try to see if the hair above my lip looks like a mustache or if it's acceptably bleached. I look at the dimples of cellulite on my hips and send a silent curse to my ancestors for the burden of it. 

I walk out of my bedroom and look at the same unfinished painting I've been looking at for the past few weeks, and send another silent curse out to myself for not being more tenacious. I have all of these good intentions. I have the groundwork laid out for how to BE BETTER, but I seem to always fail to the will of my weaknesses.

Despite all of this, I feel hopeful. I will do better. I MUST do better. I have to succeed at my life...if that's even a thing. 

So that's where I am right now. I am frustrated with myself for not making more of an effort to all of the things I want out of life. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a landfill to climb out of and it doesn't look easy.

Angela DeCamp