I don’t want to congratulate anybody ever. I don’t want to give people the gratitude of me acknowledging them. I want to compete with them silently. I want them not to know that I’m sneaking up behind them. I want to be a ninja.
I’d commit suicide, I’d commit it in a second.
But, Goddamn it, I was never good at commitments. In fact, I’m horrible. In fourth and fifth grade, we were supposed to exchange gifts for the holidays. My partner was my ex-best friend, and I didn’t get him anything because I thought the clock I got was a horrible gift. I was the only kid in class who showed up with nothing. I said I forgot.
I don’t have a fear of failure. My fear comes from despising myself when I do fail. And I will fail, and when I do, I don’t, because I don’t take chances. I don’t apply for jobs, I don’t ask girls out on dates, I don’t push myself in the gym, I don’t write the best I can, because I’m scared that my best will be a failure. I wrote this entire poem starting at 7:59 pm today. My train is about to land in Penn Station. I’m currently getting no service on my phone because we’re going underground. I’ll never try my best. I don’t deserve it.
And last but not least, my fourth and final passage I live by:
I’ve learned that everything in this life isn’t about you, like even at your own wedding. That isn’t about you. Don’t worry; you’re still important! But this isn’t about you. You, you, and you. Remember the most important days in your lives? They weren’t about you. But it’s okay. When I was 4, I scraped my knee, and I cried. I was in the park with my dad, and he helped me and hushed me. He asked if I was okay, and I cried yes. He looked at me and said, “Okay, quiet now, we’re in a public park, and everybody’s looking at you. This isn’t about you. You’re fine.” And I stopped crying.