Okay, now register the fact that this young woman is fifteen years old. FIFTEEN. Now watch it again.
I mean, Jesus.
How the hell are you supposed to maintain any kind of the-world-doesn't-deserve-me cockiness as a performer in the face of that?
It's not that I'm jealous of her talent, or her comic timing, or her writing skill, or any of that... they're substantial, but I can match or better her. With close to twenty years on her I damn well better be able to.
But her sense of self-possession is incredible. "If you think I make you feel weird now, wait until you're sixteen?" Who the hell comes up with something that full of genius at that age?
She knows who she is, and she owns it, completely. I've probably came to know the geography of who I was at her age, or thereabouts, and have thoroughly loathed vast tracts of it ever since. It took me years (decades, really) to get around to writing a play; not because I didn't know I had something to say, or that I didn't know it would be good, but because I was afraid other people wouldn't like it.
Same story with this blog, really. I should have started this thing years ago. I know I have a unique way of looking at the world, and that I'm inCREDibly smart and funny and, let's face it, sexy, but I still (at the tender age of thirty-four) can't quite convince myself that other people will agree with my assessment, or be interested in what I have to say.
Fortunately, she's not a guy, so I can be jealous without totally wanting to de-throat her. The ecology of overlapping types, and all that.
-- The Prolix Wag
Putting the “sense” in “sense of entitlement”.
Putting the “sense” in “sense of entitlement”.
UPDATE: She's 22. Topless Robot lied to me. I'm still jealous.
