DinoNeil sent proof that he was visitor number 5555. Wacky guy. I'm really getting too worked up about the number of visitors, though: giddy with excitement when it tops 100, plunged into gloom when it sinks to a more normal 75, as if three weeks ago I wouldn't have died with happiness to hit 50 every day of the week. Honestly, there's no pleasing me, and I have to force myself not look at the stats every hour of the day. It's an addiction. I need to go straight.
Alas, I am unable to write a funny, lighthearted diary entry today, liebchen. Jealousy has snuck up on me, and I can't get around the bitterness. A familiar feeling of almost-thereness, the old A Minus Syndrome, is gripping me. It doesn't seem to matter how hard I work, or how far I go beyond my previous best, I never hit the top marks. Good, but not best. Silver medalist.
You've heard it before. You'll hear it again. It's the dark side of my peer group being so awfully good. It's the sulky, tear-stained face of envy made manifest: why not me? Am I doomed to be a footnote instead of a highlighted paragraph? There's no answer, I know. It's just the way it is. What I do isn't enough, and the world is looking for something more than I give it. It's sweet when the winners say how much they like my work. Thanks ever so. But still, and always, there's the heartache of standing just below and behind. If I chose not to pace myself against the very best I know, then this wouldn't happen. If I were willing to go so far and no further, I might find happiness in underachievement. An A minus is, after all, nothing to sneeze at.
Underachievers get to be that way by being unwilling to lose. Coming up short is rough, and no one likes to be thought not good enough to compete. It's easier to simply not play the game.
I refuse to stop playing the game.
