Today’s thought: is Wordle utter agony for those who can’t spell?

Then again, I feel that way about fantasy football…

“I have something to tell you. It’s good news—or bad news—depending on how you look at it.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray the fear that the rubber(s) failed—and a little Meg or Jay was forthcoming.

“I… met someone,” she offered.

A massive wave of relief washes over my face. “Oooh. Tell me more!”

She proceeds to tell me the story. About how she met him through a coworker. About how they’re messaging non-stop. All the while she’s smiling and giggling, with an intoxicating light in her eyes.

“He talks to me like you do. He treats me like you do. He makes me feel like you do. Like I deserve happiness and joy. But…,” she trails off.

“But?”

“He hasn’t had sex in… ten years!”

“Wow! Ten years? What’s that even like?”

“Right?” Yet, she is excited!

And it’s in this moment, I know that she understands me. We adore each other, and enjoy being together.

However, our journeys are very different. I explained that from the start, but it wasn’t until this conversation that I know she understands.

That it’s about the love. And that each of us deserve it.

Last winter, I lamented that I don’t want to feel like a charlatan. Anymore. Ever. Perhaps it is because I feel as if I’ve always bought into “Fake it until you make it.”

Yet, I’ve never made it. Fake it? Yes. Make it? No.

Dilettante, indeed. Jack of all trades, master of none.

Or have I?

My inner voice is constantly telling me I’m unsuccessful. Always riding the struggle bus. One disaster away from ruin. Constantly searching for evidence of a single decision in life that wasn’t… stupid.

So, I was stunned when my favorite girl tells me she’s jealous of my life. My freedom.

Yes, she’s an important part of my life. We have proven time and again that we support each other through all of our… stupid decisions. And hoping one will prove to be that springboard into our fantasies of being eccentric billionaires. Hoping. Maybe wishing is a better word.

So, what is real? As a charlatan surviving in an increasingly cruel world, is anything real? Apparently I am good at something. Money keeps appearing, even though it seems so surreal. As do the words on the page. Am I a writer? Perhaps.

Neither her nor I are making any obvious strides to get ahead. We take turns getting into trouble. We help each other out when we can. But neither of us manage to get ahead… for long, at least.

And, while we share many of the same passions and ideals, neither of us have anyone in our immediate social circle we can identify as successful. Or a mentor. Her friends are self-absorbed, drink too much, and are underwater in debt. My friends have a li’l money—enough for a comfortable living—yet have nothing else in their lives I find… desirable. And continuously give advice that is not asked for. And pass judgment on my unconventional life.

Is anything real? Am I truly immortal? If so, I’d better find a mentor who can help me live better than I am now.

I think I know where to look…