Well. It has been a little bit of time since my last post and for good reason. Life in the Sarlacc pit has been interesting to say the least. Where should I being...
"You remind me of Anne." he told me when I said something ridiculous, as I usual. At first I wasn't sure if I should be insulted or complimented. So after he left, I did as any woman who oozes with confidence and does not need to slink to such levels, I googled Anne. Because hey, I almost ALWAYS sink to levels. Its what makes everything else not seem as bad.
When I found Anne, I wasn't sure how I felt. Anne was a motivated gal with gumption, who was uncharacteristically pretty and had quite a unique taste in attire. I also noticed she was also a mid twenty something struggling in every aspect of her life. Perhaps it was easy for me to detect that since I know exactly where she is coming from.
My new beau pegged me for something so shockingly similar, I had hopped it was not all of the above but maybe something small. Maybe we both have a quirky side smile, or look at him the same way when he makes a joke. I compared myself to the little things. Hoping that I could convince myself that the guy who has only been on a few dates with, does not know my horrible secret...
Perhaps I am too wrapped up in being slowly digested for 1,000 years that I divulge more then I should. Is that bad? Maybe not doing so would only fool everyone around me.. Gah! Further proof...
I lost (apparently) the love of my life, my condo, my schooling and my job all at once. It was like a horrible coming of age movie staring Katherine Heigl. But, unlike the movies, things did not just happen. I had to put semi effort into getting another part time job, a crappy apartment I could afford on said crappy wage, and send a few emails to get back into my program at university. The worst of it all, was that I had help because I wined to the right people. I didn't work that hard, I was having a pity party for one, and the people around me wanted me to settle down like a child after a temper tantrum.
The secret, further proof.... I AM A Y-GEN! I know I know... Shocking. For anyone who doesn't know what a y-gen is, its the generation of offspring from baby boomers.
Baby boomers were born to parents who survived war. They were hard working folk who took simple pleasures in life, told their kids to work hard because thats what people do! Well, the Baby Boomers decided that they would work hard, and when they had kids they would let them be free to make their own decisions, even if they had to support them a little longer. Well, thats what happened. All us y-gen who were teens when the internet became a thing believe we are a special snow flake that can become anything they wanted! Except they forgot to tell us about failure and how to deal with it. I classify under the above statement. I cannot settle for less then awesome and will have a tantrum like a child every time it doesn't go according to plan, if ever.
Maybe there really isn't a way to escape the Sarlacc pit. Think of how many people were, and still are, being digested by it. Only a handful of beings have on record escaped, including Boba Fett, who bonded with the Sarlacc using some crazy will to get out. But who could withstand long enough to bond with it to make it out alive?
I suppose it's a little like I have started doing. My apartment is nice and large with bright windows. But it smells horrible and has weak water pressure with temperature that spikes to boil a lobster to arctic in seconds. Yet, I still come home pleased to my own space, and shower instead of bath even though I know its going to make me curse bloody murder and freak out my neighbours. I have even enjoyed spending time with my new man friend, who "unknowingly" insults me with the truth.
Hmm. Perhaps I have started a bond with the pit. Knowing me, I would say that I wished I could be as laid back about all the bodies being digested alongside the constant mess. The Sarlacc would take it as a back handed complement about how messy its home is and push me down a few more feet.
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