"The Biggest Mistake People make in life is not trying to make a living at doing what they most enjoy. Success follows doing what you want to do. There is no other way to be successful."
--Malcolm S. Forbes
I have been taking meds for ADD for the last week, and beyond the panic attacks and manic spurts of laundry doing that it is inducing, I feel like I am rising from the dead.
It is strange, as if the life that I have been living for God knows how long belongs to someone else. My eyes are open, and through the sleep dust, palpitations and nail biting, a new Donavan is emerging.
As I look around, I think, "what are all these empty Coke cans and unopened collection notices doing piled around my room? Why is mold growing in the half drunk cup of coffee on my nightstand? Where did my BMW go?
Who would allow themselves to live in this low thread-count squalor?
Me. That's who. At least the unmedicated, chronically depressed, perpetually unfocused, ennui laden shell of my former self, me.
I turn 34 in a little over a week and don't want to spend the rest of my life hawking herbs and vitamins, dreaming of the life I could have had. Or worse yet, going back in my mental time machine and dreaming of the life that I once had.
I'm tired of dreaming.
I'm tired of this New Age poverty consciousness, paycheck to paycheck, health insurance deficient, peace, love, ginseng and holy shit, my bank account overdrafted again!, life.
God give me strength...If one more person asks me if I saw "what the bleep do we know", I may vomit up my gardenburger.
No, I didn't see it. The only science fiction movie I have any interest in right now is the upcoming screen adaptation of Hitchikers Guide To The Galaxy. Now there's a flick I'm willing to plunk down my eighteen-fifty for. As for badly made documentaries with deaf girls, fringe scientists, and quacks...thanks, but I'd rather order a double cheese pizza and rent the latest copy of Shanes World College Invasion.
Sure, I'll still see my Acupuncturist and shop at Whole Foods.
But I'll drive there in my jet black Range Rover.
Starbucks Venti Latte in the oversized cupholder, spankin' fresh New Balance 991 to the metal, wi-fi enabled cameraphone to my ear.
Maybe I'll run over a few raw-foodists on the way.
Was that a squirrel?
Four wheel drive is mighty handy when it comes to roadkill.
Do I sound mad?
I am, not as in crazy, as in furious.
Furiously mad at myself that I have taken this long to get out of my own way and design the life that I really, really want.
Not the life that happened to me out of apathy and self-sabotage.
So here's the game plan...next week, I'm going to put my Concerta induced 1.21 jigawatts of energy into getting this Baby Boy Freberg show on the road.
Apple that didn't fall far from the tree.
401K plan, here I come.
Now that my room is clean, I'm gonna see if I can do an extreme makeover on my credit report.
Followed by dusting off my demo reel and booking a headshot photographer.
Then I'm calling my agent.
"Hello, ICM? Remeber me? I'm the kid that had a report due on space..."
Till I get my foot back in the door of the wealth and fame, I'm gonna put on an Oscar caliber performance as an herbalist and new age proselytizer.
OK, everybody...quiet now...this is the final scene in the herb shop and then we move on to the sequence where the kid gets his life back.
Lock it up!