8 years ago I wrote a Book and because I am generally that impulsive I told my parents, my best friend and Steve that I HAD to be taken seriously as a professional writer! Quite frankly, I felt like I would die if I wasn’t a famous author one day. Well roll on 8 years and I wrote 2 books and … did nothing with them. I think about them all the time, their characters, what they’d be doing with their day if they actually existed and like some sad loser pretend I’m in an interview with Oprah talking about my struggles of being so over dramatic (this interview normally happens when I’m having a poo. Only time in the day when I get to daydream). I grew up so desperate to be famous, I wanted to act! I wanted to be taken seriously as the next Kate Winslet, but then I met Steve in College and dropped out because Proforming Arts and a Boyfriend was too stressful to handle. I have since then floated through work, I have always dreamed that one day someone would say “WOW, I want to be just like you when I grow up”. Turns out being a 30 something Mum with a 3 bed terraced house and a 2004 black Mazda, with stretch marks and buck teeth isn’t much to aspire to. I didn’t ever want to be the hair dresser, I didn’t care for teaching, sports didn’t interest me, I didn’t want the normal, I wanted the extra ordinary, with a 15 Bed Mansion, 12 children and 18 dogs. My life has ended up being so normal and predictable that the thought of a 15 bed mansion stresses me out because I can barely keep this house clean.
Do we ever end up doing what we always dreamed of? I mean do we ever think “fuck yes! I always wanted to be a sanitary towel bin cleaner” (or as Steve calls them a vampires lunch box). I know so many people chase the dream, work so fucking hard for it and they get it. I am more of a 3 legged tortoise who stops regularly to graze on food. I have drive and motivation but it’s buried deep beneath my need for chocolate. I enjoy writing, albeit it with terrible grammar and bad spelling (getting that in their before any other fucker does) and it allows me to think big inside my very little world.
I remember randomly being asked in college what my parents did as an occupation and I was so proud when I said “my Mum is a teacher and my dad works for MI5.” I want my kids to do that one day when they’re asked so what do your parents do? “My Dad is a financial advisor for Alan Sugar and my Mum sold 50 million copies of her book about The Secret Life Of Ants.” I want to be something to someone. Does that make any sense? I want to die and people cry for months, I want the world to go “Jesus, did you hear Laura Belbin died? What a fucking shame” I realise how sad that is, that I want and need more than I have now. Truth is I do love my life, my family, my friends, they make me who I am, but I’ll always hope for Oprah, or even Ellen De-ICantSpellHerLastName-asrus, she’s a legend too.
P.s. my Dad didn’t ever work for MI5 and I know nothing about ants.
