Notes to Myself
By Barbara Hobart
I was born with an aversion to conformity. Or as I call it: “the Fuckits.” I’m not sure if it’s genetic or hereditary but there’s no vaccine, no cream, and no magic pill to get rid of it. My mother took me to an allergist once and that didn’t help either.
It started when I was a child. Like most kids, I colored outside the lines – but I did so on purpose. At nine, I declared “I HATE pink and yes, I am decorating my entire room in black” fuck it. As I got older, it spread into “I had a shitty day. I’ll just have one drink,” fuck it. Then it morphed into a rather juvenile midlife crisis “everyone on Facebook has a perfect life and is having fun but me” fuck it. And my favorite go-to “this script sucks. I’ll never write again” fuck it. And before I knew it, there were huge piles of fuckits laying around the house alongside my piles of wrinkled dirty clothes because “I hate doing laundry and I need a maid” fuck it.
Don’t get me wrong, I tried looking for cures like therapy and self-help books and soon discovered there wasn’t enough chardonnay on the planet to fix it. So, what’s a girl to do? The only rational thing: curl up on my couch and binge on Netflix and Skinny Pop popcorn - a bag of lies disguised as little fluffy low-fat kernels, which added inches to my mid-section that I chose to call “election fat.” I burrowed into my couch and ruminated about how I’d never be successful again. I stared blankly at the TV screen until I could no longer watch another episode of Grace and Frankie and realized House of Cards was never coming back. My life was over. (Fuck you, Kevin Spacey. I invested five seasons with no fucking resolution and more importantly, I don’t get to see Robin Wright’s next hairstyle. Why did you have turn out to be a bigger asshole than the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave?)
But I digress.
So, there I was in my comfy place: on the “I’m no good, I’ll never make it, I have no friends, and will die alone because I’m going to outlive my cat” fuck-it couch. On the off chance, there is anyone (other than telemarketers) who needs to get in touch, feel free to reach me at my mailing address: the corner of Been There and Fuck It.
And then – a moment of clarity. I came to from a Haagen-Dazs coma and realized if I kept this up I was going to guest star on the next season of The Biggest Loser. I was faced with a serious decision: Do I do that load of fuckits or do I throw in the towel and commit myself to eight seasons of The Walking Dead and emerge in the year 2045?
The thought “fuck it, what do I have to lose?” momentarily popped into my consciousness and then I realized, I have EVERYTHING to lose! I realized the last time I said “fuck it,” I sold a series, I fell in love, I patented a product – no, two products, and… wait a minute, what am I waiting for? If I’m going down with the ship, I’m doing it big time.
Now I’m putting down the bag of Cheetos and wiping the orange fuzz from my cat and I’m going to get off my ass-again. Because fuck-it, I can. Because I’m one fuck-it away from reaching my goal.
So, what are you waiting for?
Take that risk – go for that one crazy idea that shouldn’t work. Throw yourself face first into a project or a person or that vacation to some random village in Tibet that you always swore you were going to do. Say “fuck it” to the voice in your head that tells you that you aren’t capable of bizarre and brilliant things.
The time is now to fuck things up.