Thursday, September 3, 2015

...whilst watching Bojack Horseman.

“So, let me get this straight: His book’s a best-seller, now?”


“And he’s going to play the role of his dreams?”


“But he’s still unhappy?”

“Well yeah. He doesn’t feel like he deserves it, right? He didn’t write that book, and he wasn’t the first choice for the movie, he was the one they settled for after the first choice broke his legs. For that matter, he didn’t create the sitcom he got famous for either, it wasn’t his real self on the screen, it was somebody else’s words, somebody else’s work. And the fact that it’s not his real self succeeding but it IS his real self failing time and time again to connect meaningfully with the people around him eats at him as time goes by, eventually tainting any pride or happiness he might get from what under normal circumstances would be considered victories.”

“I can’t even imagine that level of self-loathing, that he could hate himself when everything was going that well.”

“Really? You’ve never felt your successes turn to ash in your mouth, because no matter what’s going on, no matter how great things theoretically are, you know that ultimately you are the same you as you have always been, the same scared child running away from himself, and that none of it matters because you’re a fraud and you don’t deserve one moment of happiness and any minute everyone’s going to figure that out and when they do they will hate you, they will HATE you, for lying to them and telling them that you’re anything more than the tiny, worthless thing that you know in your heart that you are?”

“No, I’ve never felt that way.”

“No. I mean, me neither, obviously. I mean, that would be super weird, right?”

…I heaved myself to my feet and wandered, suddenly feeling just slightly too awkward at the turn of the conversation to remain in the room, to the kitchen to fetch another beer. In a lot of ways, she and I are very different people. Still, we’ve manage to make the dynamic work so far…

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