When the weekend comes, all of the old demons have a chance to be heard above the roar of work

When the weekend comes, all of the old demons have a chance to be heard above the roar of work. There may be a few angels in the mix, too, but don’t count on it.

You have too much to tell, and only a few hours to talk about it. So, what do you talk about?

From where comes that wistful nostalgia for friendships never found? People you didn’t meet until later in life are busy posting pictures of their schooldays on Facebook, and you are putting yourself inside their photos. Your own school life wasn’t much to talk about, but you wouldn’t mind reliving it, were you given such a chance.

You were an exceptionally average student, and you’ve always been exceptionally average at everything you’ve done since school. Can one even be exceptionally average? You think so. You think that in all of your aspirations towards greatness or infamy, you managed to exquisitely average yourself out until you are as much at the top of the Bell Curve on any chart as a person could possibly get.

This is not to say that you are a cliche. Your favorite color isn’t blue, and you don’t like football, and you can’t stand country music. But, nobody who’s ever taken an average amount of time to get to know you has ever proclaimed you to be something special.

This used to bother you a lot. Lord, please don’t let me turn out to be just average at everything I do, please make sure there is something I am especially good at. It hurt more to hear people say that your work was good, but not terrible or great. You were wounded more easily by people not responding to your efforts to elicit responses, and finally floored when they said they didn’t mind having you around, but they didn’t particularly care enough to include you on their next party invitation.

You didn’t think you’d been working so hard just to make yourself mildly agreeable and at best, not offensive or unpleasant. You thought people were secretly deciding they absolutely adored your or completely hated your guts, but you rarely allowed yourself to believe that you were just somewhere in the inoffensive middle.

In your mind’s eye, you were always great.

You shone like the brightest star at every single party, and created endless black holes when you made your absence felt. You imagined that people who hadn’t spoken to you in ten years would be bursting with delight to start up a conversation with you. You thought that just by virtue of you being you, the especially radiant and important people would eventually find you like some kind of homing beacon.

However, you didn’t feel the need to actually do anything great.

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