From the Vault: Can I Call You Later?

Tales of an Underacheiver

Apparently, there was a time when I had real potential:
Some people (most of whom are doting friends and family) still maintain (usually when they've had a few too many Bartles and Jaymes wine coolers) that I could have become a vaguely recognized poet, a widely ridiculed but brilliant literary scholar, a loving and devoted mother, or even someone with a voracious appetite for cheap mystery novels, entirely alien to the blogosphere. But my high school out-droppin', ice cream sandwich-gorging, never-have-time-to-go-to-the-gym-complaining, too-tired-to-do-anything-but-tv-watchin', navel-gazing, solipsistic, and reclusive nature has had the last word, at least for the rest of this decade.

Since I moved to this great city - the city of my forebears, which I love and would gladly die for, or in - many rare and gloatworthy opportunities have come my way and gone, and according to my meticulous records, I've now come full circle. This primitive cartoon, circa summer 1993, provides the incontravertable evidence with which I can finally prove my support network wrong, once and for all. (For those in the network without magnifying spectacles, a click on the embedded images will suffice.)



Oddly - or not - in 13 years not much has changed, except the following:

Grandfather now dead

Almost pushing 40

"V.D." now referred to as "S.T.D"

No longer a virgin

Also, it has been called to my attention that "Destiny" and its child (fig. 1, bottom center) are now collectively known as Beyoncé, a subsidiary of Pepsico.