I know what I don’t want, and I don’t want it now. Outside validation. The act of measuring ones self worth on the opinions of outside sources. The need to hear from friends and family that you’re a good person: you’re smart, you’re talented, you’re creative and well. . . some people are just “late bloomers”. Outside Validation: The need for people to flock around you at a party because you’re the funniest and coolest one there, and, “Wait, where the hell did you get those amaze ballz shoes?” OUTSIDE VALIDATION: The need to be BOOKED solid with social events so that people DON’T forget about you and you’ve got a bad case of FOMO.
No, no, no, no, no. No more.
From now on I am busy. Too busy to call. Too busy to answer. Too busy to attend.
I guess that’s what getting older and looking around at the shit feast you have created does to you.
The need for outside validation sucks! It has taken me so far away from my intention. I get high on the little jewels of positive comments that have been cast my way. I then drape myself in them as I sink into the lazy abyss of procrastination. Just one little morsel of a compliment could feed a family of me’s for a week. It has taken me so far away from everything that I want for myself.
Meanwhile the only one who really likes me, the most, or gives a shit about me in the first place, is me. I freaking love myself. No seriously. I laugh at my own jokes. I dance to the songs playing in my own head. I have epiphany’s at least three times a day. I love me!
If I could binge on isolation I would. Cards on the table, I’m a closet hermit. The whole stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean alone thing, piece of cake. (Of course, I would need cake or some kind of chocolate thingy sent to me once a month.)
I thoroughly entertain myself, as long as there isn’t anyone else around me telling me I’m doing a fuck up job at life.
There are a few people I will send a post card to, from my Island. Those people know who they are, you know who you are (wink). Here I will introduce them to Howie, the happy basketball head, and Barbara the 60 year old diner waitress coconut. I have a penchant for old ladies with character.
From now on it’s just me, myself and that hot chick that stares back at me in the mirror who’s opinions of me I’m yearning for. Want to tell me I’m a great a actress, yoga teacher, mom, writer? Save it. I already having that inner monologue going on. Want to tell me that I suck? I sure do! Lemons, martini soaked olives, and lollipops. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I have decided the outside validation just doesn’t supply oxygen to my blood anymore. Just good old fashioned “shake what cha mama gave ya” self confidence is what I’m fueling this ship with now. And that about (cap)sizes it up.
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