Our Diddums is Growing Up.

Learning only a tiny bit of the tedious amounts of painful patience and time consuming frustration that belong to the skill of painting has made me appreciate anything that isn't on a fast track to obliterating, mindless stardom.

I think I'm getting old because life is making me tired.

I was elated when the underground/indie scene was brought to me through the glorious internet. I was so impressed with my knowledge of Dashboard Confessionals and Bright Eyes when they still were Bright Eyes and Dashboard Confessionals. I was so cool.
Now, I am so unenthused by music and the enormous lack of effort that has simply fallen into the laps of today's musicians, that the only comfort I find in something that I once loved, is my 200 disc collection of bands I listened to in highschool - And even that is questionable.
My friend Tammy was so happy-flustered when her sister befriended the Trews that she could barely contain herself. The constant rambles of compliments that dripped out of her mouth, sticking this band on the upper echelons of talented artists amoungst the Canadian, mainstream music scene made me interested. Hearing their first single of a basic chord progression and a shitty use of a scale to replace a rift, made me un.
The truth of the matter was, Serena's band was better. They were more talented. And I suppose that could have interested me if I hadn't gotten sick of the boyfriend-band dilemma when I was sixteen. I never wanted to be a rockstar, I never wanted to be famous and I don't think it's possible to be an envious groupie. What I was interested in was the music. Now that the apparent lack of interest in learning a trade, or to master an instrument has flashed me in the face like a set of highbeams, the desire to be interested in mediocre facades is way too much work for the simplicity I've grown into.

I do not want to be mediocre at what I choose to do with my life. I will suffer through the tedious amounts of painful patience and time-consuming frustration to find my niche, but for nothing else. If it makes me happy, that's all I want. I hope there is no such thing as an IT-list of Pastry Chefs.

Everything that I once admired, the person I wanted to be, the way I wanted to look, the job I wanted to have has become nothing more than an annoying glitch that bubbles up in my memories when I see a shock-value sitcom about over-the-top, high-profile lesbians and their sexcapades.

It's nice to find your liberating individuality as a young adult, but the stereotypes that build around aging shadow a calming mindchange that becomes terribly misplaced by the fears of growing old. I suppose this is when I realise that there's always someone cooler than me.
My sister has seen it in me. She hates that I no longer jump at the chance to attend concerts or rumage through the piles of thrift store clothing, hoping to find that oldschool Zeppelin t-shirt that will place me amoungst the right crowds, the right people, the right life.
What she doesn't see is how I much I'm looking foward to decorating my first home, to planting the seeds in my first garden. To coming home to a husband, to make dinner for our family, (whatever that may be). To thrive to be normal. To take comfort in the life I've cultivated by making it cool to be uncool.

I'm tired of the struggle to be IT.

I just want to fade into the shadows of the day and enjoy being me.