The Base Model

I’m sure many of us can remember those old cars where there were just random plastic blocks in the dash, of course these were buttons and features on the higher models.

My entire life, I have been the base model experience, hell even the prototype with no functions at all. School was essentially a slow burn frenzy of looking to find what talents/inklings I had only to keep crasing into “not this sport” “Not this subject” “Sorry bud nothin here too”. Noting special in physicality, nothing special academiically. Any hobby I tried to take up was met with a wall of utterly sucking so hard, only to find it’s of reinforced concrete, by my ever slower than average progess next to everyone else…if progress came at all.

People tell me I have a powerful imagination, I believe I do, but let’s face it. It’s of no use when trapped inside someone whose reduced ability to develop skills insults the visions it creates with woeful rendtion. I tried drawing for a while, the imagination’s brute force along side stratospheric self-hate driven focus could get the images out, just barely. It was exhausting: the supposed ‘calming’ ‘therapeutic’ experience? it was anything but. I tried writing it into a book. Most whom I coerced into reading it couldn’t finish a chapter.
A few other things I’ve done and knowing I’ve put an earnest effort in, just cannot get the same results that others can when they give equal or even less effort.

I’ve had to go through life with the acute feeling that I just don’t have the tools for success. (Success here: just being able to live a life that allows itself to be lived). Missing parts, missing features. The demo model that should never have been put on the road.