Just ignore Bruce Springsteen.
I’m realizing my own personal dreams, and they are being sullied by the fact that none of my exes seem to give a shit about them. Even Kristen, while I was with her, didn’t seem all that impressed by the growing income, view counts, likes, or how excited I was on all fronts. Hannah told me to stop messaging her, and I suspect she doesn’t give a shit that we added our highest number of subscribers in a single month in October, or that we shattered every other statistical ceiling that YouTube can track.
Why the fuck does that even matter to me?
I cried over a listener’s death this morning, and I immediately felt either foolish or selfish about it. In the last two years, he commented on two of my photos on Facebook, and I felt like I was indulging in my own troubles by using his death as my validation to cry. I’ve been loosely tracking the days since I last cried, feeling successful if I could confidently say “it’s been at least a week or two since I last succumbed”.
There are no victories in this mindset: it matters more that I missed an extra day of yoga than that I exercised six straight days before that.