My Caboose

Sometimes I feel left out, even when I have no reason to. It's selfish and narcissistic and unbelievably annoying to want attention when it is clearly someone else's turn.

I wish people said good things about me when I wasn't there. But that's the rub, I wouldn't know even if they did. But of course I have to obsess about these things and insist on getting more than I have. I have to have it all.

But it seems that feeling special is such a fleeting feeling, and making it last is close to impossible. It's mysterious. It lives in such a fragile and volatile piece of my heart. I can't control it or understand it. But I can twist reality into such a convoluted version of truth so that I become my own worst enemy. And I hurt everyone around me with impossible expetations. So then I end up feeling not-so-special, but also like a cad. Because I don't want to step aside for anyone, even when they deserve it. I don't like to share. But I have to. I'm trying. I want to be better. But I also want to be special.

I sound like an idiot, and I know that.

I've been watching this Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer show, and I wish I could go to the land of misfit toys where I could fit in. No one wants to play with me, so I should go there where no one will expect me to be different than I am. It might not make me feel special, but at least I could be a freak like everybody else. I have square wheels on my caboose. My elephant has spots. But Burl Ives isn't singing af song for me.