Everybody keeps talking to me about the same thing. That thing I did in ‘79, gah! Is that all I’m ever going to be known for? I mean seriously!
That time I did karaoke and sung the shit out of Rockwell’s Somebody’s Watching Me. That was unreal. Everyone was singing along. Somebody was definitely watching me that night, I was entertaining as fuck.
Yeah, what a night that was. Unforgettable. But… nooooooooo…. People are still hung up by my “greatest” accomplishment and totally forgot about that performance.
You know what’s funny about greatest accomplishments?
Everybody’s definition of that is different. Some people’s greatest accomplishment is not dying when they were an infant. That’s their greatest accomplishment. For others it’s inventing the lightbulb.
Yeah. That’s me, the guy who invented the lightbulb.
Was it hard? Nah! People invent stuff all the time.
Like my cousin, Ren, he invented his own language, with swear words and everything.
He would always call me the direct translation of a Mother Fucker. There was literally a single word in his language for someone who does that. We don’t have that in our common tongue, English. We need two words to explain that concept.
First we need to know what it was that was fucked. Second, we need to know what was done to it, which was the fucking. The concept is a thing doing. Fascinating, huh?
That’s the beauty of language: I can say something and you can understand it. Now that, my friend, is an amazing accomplishment.
Of course, I wouldn’t boldly tell Ren that his greatest accomplishment was creating a whole language. That would be presumptuous.
Only the man who’ve lived the life can decide what he claims to be his greatest accomplishment.
Wow! That sounded wise. That’s deep too, right?
What if I decided that what I said right there is my greatest accomplishment. I can totally do that. My life, my choice!
Isn’t weird that we have to do this: ranking our lives. Trying to make every year better. Humans, so sad. Why can’t we be satisfied where we are? Why must we run on this hedonistic treadmill? What happiness am I chasing?
All my life I wanted to invent the lightbulb, now that I have, what more can I do?
It’s like by helping the world shine, I am left in the shadows. OMG. Was that just poetry? I’m not smart with this stuff, but that definitely sounded a little poetry to me. I feel goosebumps. Shit! This poetry shit is potent.
I guess, it could be worst. I could have never invented the lightbulb at all. Then what would I have done?
Then, would I even be remembered at all?
Think of all the people you’ve met. How many of them do you actually remember? Not many right? That’s a lot of fucking people — and you don’t even know anybody from India.
Imagine if you knew everyone from India… just pretend. I bet that Indians in India don’t even know every Indian in India. If I didn’t do something special, nobody would remember me at all.
I should be grateful that I am associated with something so essential to daily living. I mean, I invented something that is used by everybody — except the Amish and the poverty stricken. My invention is used by more people than Steve Job’s invention, the computer. That’s unreal. I’m not niche. I’m fucking mainstream as fuck! I should be hella more famous than I am. WTF.
I’m not going to lie, I’m a little pissed right now.
Why am I here talking to you dumb pieces of shit? I should be in a castle or something. I should be in a jacuzzi with well-paid, fully qualified female supermodels. I got ripped off! I can’t believe it.
You know where I went wrong? Here is where I went wrong, I got a patent before I got an agent. I needed someone to manage me. I had no one. I wung it. I wung it pretty good, I thought, but… holy shit, that is why you need a representative. I should have got one. I put so much work into it as well. See that’s the thing, that was time I could have been inventing more stuff or singing karaoke. Wasted time, wasted effort, poor results.
I’m pretty sad right now about my life. I go and invent one of the most revolutionary things in all of humanity and all I get is this, a slow sad death of me being reminded of how great my invention is.
Fuck! It’s pretty good, i guess, but can’t we talk about me? Can’t we talk about my crippling depression? That’s the thing about depression for old men. There’s no point helping you anymore. You sucked it up for this long, you can do it for a few more months.
Okay… enough, I don’t want to think how other people see me anymore, that’s such a sad and horrible way to think. I’m going to be myself, just an honest version of me from here on out. I’m going to think positive. I’m going to think about happy stuff like being in a jacuzzi with well-paid, fully qualified female supermodels.
Damn! I’m still pissed.
What you’ve just read is the third post in a series entitled “A Fan Fiction of My Life by My Number One Fan, Me.” Please check out the first two posts from the series:
Me, A Doctor
I Am A Controversial Artist, AMA
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