I have my mother’s knuckles.

This may not seem like such a big deal.  But it’s not the same as having your mother’s nose or  your father’s eyes.  I’m talking about the dry, desert-cracked knuckles of an old woman.  I’m 30, and I have my mother’s knuckles.  My hands used to be so soft.  I took pride in them.  Funny how everything I took pride in has been stripped away by the hands of time.  My hair is thin now, my skin is drying out, and I’m no longer the fastest typist in the town, due to carpal tunnel issues.  I can’t begin to describe how depressing that is for me.  I feel like I wouldn’t feel so bad if I had made use of my youth while I had it.  But I was a homebody and a shy one at that.  I never spent the night painting the town red or anything like that.  I feel like I lost something that I never fully enjoyed or took advantage of.  And it’s not fair.

The other day, a kid across the street came to our door.  A teenager, one of the ones that my parents call “hoodlums” and “juvenile delinquents.”  They don’t mean any harm; they’re just a bit noisy.  He had accidentally flung his keys on a lanyard onto our roof.  It was an amusing situation.  But after we got the ladder out, I realized he was a cute kid.  Cute enough that I would’ve fangirled all over him when I was ten years younger.  And that made me sad, because I’m too old for that now.  And if I so much as complimented the boy, he’d think I was being creepy, and his mother would probably call the cops.  Is this how dirty old men feel?  It’s not like I wanted to jump his bones or anything, just admire his youth and vitality and cuteness.  I never had that, and now I never will.

It’s not just maturity that lowers our standards.  It’s society.  And that’s a good thing.  It’s just hard to deal with.  Even for an ace like me.  It’s not that I want what I see; I’d just like to have the option.  I never appreciated it when I had the option.  I never had a lot of options to begin with, being the fat, brainy chick.  So knowing that they’re being restricted even further is disheartening, to say the least.  It doesn’t help that this is a very difficult time for me right now.  It feels like I’m becoming useless to everyone, including myself.  Knowing that I’m even useless to society, even as a decoration, is the final straw.

I honestly don’t know what to do.  I’m sure there are people who think I’m being a big baby.  But I’m scared to death that I’m going to lose everything, even though it isn’t much.  My carpal tunnel made work too painful, but I can’t go on disability because it’s considered a “fixable” problem.  I can’t find any other work that I qualify for AND that won’t make my arms worse.  I could probably power through the pain for a little while, but I suspect I would end up unable to do anything at all in a matter of months.  So I’m mooching off of my parents, selling everything I can think of to make some cash, and trying to get my dream career of writing books off the ground.  Like that’s gonna happen.  I’ve sold exactly ten books in three months.  I love to write, and I fear losing the use of my arms mostly because that would mean no more writing.  That, and I’d never be able to play another video game or hold a book again, either.  But I can’t support myself like this.

I feel so useless.  I wish it would just end.  I don’t have the guts to do it myself, at least not in this world.  I saw a picture online of that game Portal 2, the one where you’re looking through a portal at the backside of your own character.  A cool effect, for sure.  But, and I’m sure there aren’t that many people who did this, my first thought was that it would be an easy way to off yourself.  Think about it.  The reason it’s hard to shoot people in real life is because they’re people, and you can see their faces.  But if they’re wearing helmets, like Stormtroopers, they’re easier to kill.  Think how easy it would be to aim a gun at your own backside.  You wouldn’t be able to see your own face, and you could pretend it was someone else.  Maudlin, perhaps, but it, more than any other possibility, made me yearn for portal technology in the real world.  Pathetic?  Yeah, I know.  But so easy.

All the things I never did when I was young, I’ll never be able to do now.  The doors around me are closing faster now.  I have all these signs, but they’re more like notes than warnings.  They tell me what’s already happened, instead of what will happen.  I’ll never be rich or famous or even moderately well-off.  I’ll never be loved or happily attached to anyone.  I’ll never be successful or admired.  I may as well not exist.  If only I could make it happen.

Part of me is still a little unbelieving.  I can’t believe these are really my knuckles.  I’m a little shocked every time I look at them.  One day, I suppose, I’ll accept them, and it won’t surprise me anymore.  Then I’ll be horrified that I’m no longer surprised.  Just like I’m horrified now by what my life has become.  I once dreamed of being a bohemian writer in a studio apartment, sought out for her intelligence, wit, and skill with a pen.  Phoebe Buffay with a brain.  Instead, I have a ton of junk, no skill, no friends, and no independence.  And soon, no pen.  Life has narrowed my choices to just a few, and they all suck.  If I felt like I had a purpose, maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

But I can’t save the environment.  No one can.  The more I read about the state of the world, the more obvious that becomes.  There are species of animal out there that we will never see again after a few more years.  And all my years of holier-than-thou vegetarianism makes little sense now that science is discovering that plants may be partly sentient in a crude fashion.  Nature is red in tooth and claw, so who gives a flying fart.  If I were a cow in a factory farm, I would rather see my whole species die out than continue living in that way.  And there’s no way my fellow humans will set up cow sanctuaries.  So why not.  Let’s kill ’em all.  If the world ends, there’ll be no more suffering, right?  If only the damn LHC had actually created a black hole.  That would’ve made it easy for everyone.

After all, what’s the point?  You’re born, you live, you die.  Sometimes, you leave something behind that people remember for a little while.  But that fades after a time.  Nobody today knows what Abraham Lincoln was really like.  Your kids will remember you if you have them, and your grandkids may.  But after that, you’re a footnote in the family bible.  They say leaving something behind is a form of immortality, but that’s bullshit to make you feel better about dying.  The truth is, no one’s immortal, and when it’s all over, nothing you did or said will really matter.  Yeah, we’re all part of the circle of life, but that’s not as beautiful a thing as Elton John would have us believe.  It’s crude and ugly and mean, and red and raw and bloody.  It’s dog eat dog.  And that’s the only part that’s really memorable, because it’s the only part that’s really important.  Nature has tricked us into thinking it’s important that we survive; therefore, the most important thing that we need to know is HOW to survive.  But in the end, it’s all stardust.  And the things that seem important right now don’t really matter at all.

The point of life is to enjoy it.  But even that doesn’t matter when it all comes to an end.  And anyway, I’m not enjoying it too much anymore.  Maybe I never did.  I got pretty good at pretending there for a while.  I could almost make myself look normal.  But almost doesn’t win first prize, just like very old doesn’t make you immortal.  I’m back to whiling away my time and waiting for the old Reaper to pay me a visit.  I wish I had the guts to meet him halfway.  I should go back to poetry; I’m certainly emo enough these days.  At least, it would give me something to do while I’m being useless, something to distract me from these knuckles.