Last week brought truth to light: I’m a huge loser. But, that’s ok because Kara has murdered me.
I am an exhausted version of myself, waiting for my phone to buzz with news of another stranger who Likes my face or my wardrobe or persona, dead to the things I was trying to achieve before taking on this project. It is 9:30 in the morning and I cannot remember what I want to be doing.
I can’t stop staring at my phone. I was at the Raptor’s game yesterday, just staring at my phone. At one point my mother remarked, “you’re very busy” and I almost cried at the reality: I am not busy. I only look busy because I have spent my entire week as a girl who hopes to appear as busy. But, there are no Likes. There are no Comments. No one is listening to her. Meanwhile, I sit, dead to an exciting reality. Kara has killed me for the appearance of her own life. She is hiding me so that the whole world can see her. We stare at the phone, waiting to see if anyone likes us.
For the millenial generation, self-obsession is the only motivation to socialize. We used to need love and experience, warmth and intimacy and then, further into human evolution, it was the need to share intellect. Currently, people are socializing just to construct “cool” into their own ego. Now, true heartbreak comes, not when a friend leaves us, but when the public forgets to reminds us that we are liked. We don’t live off the Earth anymore, we don’t live with the people we see, who we can touch and feel. We live, instead, in a constructed reality, far from where we sit, far from where we can really touch anyone. The only way to fit in is to be everywhere. I can’t keep up.
Before meeting Kara, I’ve kept a notebook of time. It’s a list, numbered, titled on some pages, of actions I take in the day. I don’t have a real job, no one employs me and so instead of letting Time matter to me in the way it does to normal people, I list moments and call them “minutes” or sometimes “hours” and then after a few pages have gone by, I decide it’s a new year. Since I have graduated from school, this is how I take care of my life: By inventing it. I have successfully found a way to live in my own head and, sure it’s led to me being very unemployed, potently alienated and confused most of the time but, when it comes to my work as a writer of fiction, my accomplishments are endless because the world around me only matters according to the time-space reality I have recorded and that I believe in.
I work hard to consume myself in daily practice so that when I approach the play or novel or story that I am working on, I can sit comfortably in a different world. I like to spend time sweating, running or hopping through yogic poses or taking twenty minutes to try to end up in a handstand (never happens), I drink detoxifying teas, I sit holding burning sage in meditation, I do whatever I can to silence my ego, to forget the ego of the world just so I can write fiction that states a truth which is buried in my subconscious until I sit to write.
I haven’t done any of that this week. I have become Kara. I have taken photos with her. I have taken her out. I have obsessed over my body. I have wondered about making new friends. I have compared myself to the images that we’re given of the world, of the people in the world, who we believe are real. I have made new goals which don’t make any sense to me: Lose weight, harden every piece of yourself, everyone will love it and the clothing will finally look as meant to; travel, see every corner of the “exotic” world, everyone will love it and you’ll finally have stories that are worth reading; have sex, find men who think lively of you, everyone will love it, salacious and cinematic and interesting as it is, as it will be, you will ally with new people for new events.
I will not accomplish any of these things and I feel ugly and failed because I haven’t, I know I can’t but I will pretend that Kara has. I will construct the images and words needed to convince you that Kara has. Each goal is entangled grossly in the public’s perception of it actually having happened. Everything thought of is an offshoot of another woman’s seeming accomplishments that Kara wishes she had already done that I can’t help but wonder if I can fake her doing it. If I take a photo of a film shoot and tell you “what a great day on set” will you like it or would it be better to take a shot of a random person and tell you “NEXT BIG CELEB GO FIND EDEN ON INSTA RIGHT NOW AMAZE LOL LOL” will you like it, what is the thing I need to make up for her that makes everyone think I am somebody. I can do it. I just need to be sure of what it is. It isn’t hard. I am shamefully good at this. A year ago I opened a Twitter account and had 1,000 followers in two weeks. I used to obsess over Facebook posts, people would freeze when meeting me just to tell me that I was the funniest person on their feed. I am a good writer but I am also a huge loser and I say that not to put myself down I say that to remind you that I have nothing to say. I don’t go to galas or large parties about beer brands or concerts or weddings, I don’t have a baby or a husband, I don’t travel, all I do, literally, is write things and if I really think hard, if I really write and then delete and then write again and then edit this and then that, if I really try, it will be the perfect thing you needed to hear today. I hope. Because, I will be checking my phone. I will be staring at my phone and while lost in the blank screen of a phone I wouldn’t even have had ten years ago but for some reason now I need, I deaden my self.
I should be lying on the floor sniffing sage and praying to an unknown entity but instead I am staring at Kara’s instagram wondering what else I can do to make her more interesting. The day passes and the next passes and the week passes and I haven’t recorded any of it and it will become a year and if it weren’t for this project being a means to an end, an upcoming web series release that I hope you all watch, if it weren’t for my certainty in that project, I would be writing a play about something I have already written about.
The worst admission is the one that states: I need to do this so that I can change. I need to let her kill me so that I can write new things. I need to feel the pain of a woman who has nothing but false love from strangers, nothing but dick pics and selfies to really understand the true desperation of the contemporary ego: please like me, please say something to me and please follow to remember I am here.
Kara is already dead and remembered. She is resurrected only for the sake of a photo. She needs circumstance to keep her interesting and circumstance is everywhere. All I have to do is write the proper caption. Just make you believe that our reality is the real reality and you’re lucky to get a peek at it.
This blog is updated daily, detailing my transformation into a fictional character who is being crafted for a larger theatrical project. If you like it, please share to social media, follow the blog and come back soon
You can read Kara’s blog at http://www.okkarablog.wordpress.com
or follow her on Instagram @karakarrara