Is this what my parents, grandparents felt as the world passed them by?
I find myself referencing their sepia-toned lives frequently, their pivot points leave hazy memories and the sense I’m in the club now. I talk to my father, which is funny since he died estranged from me, an unrepentant, defiant, abusive old man in his early 50s laying like a cold, fatty slab of meat, waiting for the Tripler nurses to wake up… his 50s… the same age I am.
Earlier today, I turned on a DVR of “America’s Next Top Model,” the season opener. I didn’t recognize these people as a part of the human race, not my human race, not me or anyone I came from.
The young judges, models, stylists, trend-setters, the young, aspiring wannabes set up their social media stage in such self-important, fleeting detail. They went on about branding, “All eyes on me,” walking over everyone else’s feelings to reach the top, which is… what?
Being seen? Having 25K and over followers? Standing there half-naked sticking your T&A out, smizing, ducklips banging? That’s worth a multi-million “boss” contract?
When did the world turn into a squad of raging, rival Narcissists jostling for position — just for existing? Is this all we came down here for?
I found myself crying by the end of the first episode, as the slick Tyra Banks — no relation, thank gawd — credits rolled on, plastic till the very end, rewarding superficiality, the cliché of every other walking mannequin on sight.
I don’t want to exist in this kind of world. I want to find my people, do as much good as I can, laugh until I shit my pants, and then leave this place better than I found it.
There. Nothing dramatic.
Tomorrow, if all goes well, I’ve got a movie date to see “Split” with my friend Sarah, the early show. I hope I don’t drop dead from a heart attack.