a beginning? a beginning.

Every year about this time I start to think I can take over the world. Right after the winter depression, right before the dawn of spring. Yet I have times like this all throughout the year, so I suppose the season has nothing to do with it. I suppose it's a life-long cycle, a yearlong menstrual cycle that never ends. Beforehand, I always feel so apathetically depressed. I just hate realizing that there really is no point to all of these mundane things that we people do every day. There is no reason for this obsession of objects-how long can you really keep all of this shit anyway? I once knew a woman who hoarded all of her shit in her house, until there was no room for her to live there anymore. She ended up living in a trailer outside, while her junk took precedence over her household and daily life. It wasn't even anything good, nothing of value. This woman saved sticks and bundles of newspaper, for Christ's sake. And was she happy? No. She was a mean old spinster. They're never happy. Take a look at me.
It's not only objects that have no real value-even talents are reduced to shit when you break it all down. Something like learning a new language or how to play an instrument just ends up feeling superfluous and mundane if you think about it. And how can you not think about it? Yippee, you can play a progression of sounds on a piece of shaped metal. You're still going to die. Is that piece of metal going to keep you company on your deathbed? It's not going to help you any in the long run. All I have ever gotten out of life is that there is no point to life at all. All you can do is be as happy as you possibly can, and maybe change the way those proceeding you think or view things. That's it. Hopefully you find someone to love you in your short existence, for if not, your happiness factor is usually down a bit. And you'll waste a whole lot of time looking for someone to love, when you could be putting that time into a cure for cancer or something. But hey, everyone dies from something, right? And you, you're going to die of cancer. But it's not your fault you never found someone to love. At least you found someone to marry, I suppose. That's what counts.
If you ever asked me how I wanted to end up in life, I definitely wouldn't have said that I wanted to get really old, forget whom I was and spend my days sitting on our oldest sons couch, mumbling to myself. That thought never crossed my mind. It didn't even cross my mind when it was happening. By then I was too senile to really think about it. Ask me the same question earlier, maybe when I'm about 24. By this time we've been married for a year, and I'm about to give birth to the aforementioned son. I was so damn ambitious back then. I planned on taking over the world, one kitchen at a time.
Yes, I knew what I had been taught growing up. Men are the masters of the household, I, as a woman, are expected to heed to your every beck and call, all of that bullshit. But back then, I didn't think it really applied to me. No, even when it was happening, it didn't apply to me. Yet I still learned something valuable from that experience, dear. No matter how much you love a man, if you have any dreams, he will proceed to fuck them up. And be happy about it. Unless, of course, your dreams are to make home-cooked meals daily, take care of the kids, keep the house spotless and rub his feet every night. You're welcome to do that without his interference. He'll probably be off on a business trip anyway, or out golfing with the guys. ('Business Trip' will always mean off fucking one of the many cute secretaries with cute names. In ever book you read or movie you watch, this will always be true. This is because it applies to real life. No man will ever be faithful enough to not have sex with another woman when he's away for two nights. Two nights without sex? Unthinkable! Don't worry, he never loved you anyway.)
No woman ever asked or wanted to be treated like shit then abandoned once her used, childbearing body wasn't as attractive and elastic as it once was. All anyone ever wants is to be loved. And I suppose that's why I never got anywhere in life. All I thought about was love-ways to get you, my husband, to love me. My mind was so occupied by that, I had no time to cure cancer. But then again, it's you who died of cancer, not me. If you had given me the love I needed, you wouldn't be dead right now. That's what this all boils down to.
Yes, so I was bitter. I hated you, passionately. I don't anymore, I suppose. You can't really hate anyone who's dead, can you? I mean, they lost. You have to feel sorry for them, the losers. Especially since you've beaten them. Yes, dear, I'm the winner in this game. As senile as I may be, I'm still alive! So no, I don't hate you anymore. But I did-oh, I did! You were a poet, which I thought was romantic at first. Until I realized it was just a waste of life. In your case, anyway. You worked your office job, but your real passion was being a poet. Rather, you wanted to be a poet. All you ever wrote was shit, and it took you years to write a fucking poem, years! And to think your stupid little housewife wrote this in a few months. All in her journal, all about you.