I Had a Breakdown While Riding Home in an Uber

Because, Instagram

I was picked up and headed towards the 405 freeway. As we merged, I looked out into the night sky. Fuck! It’s almost midnight and I am exhausted from doing what it takes to keep a roof over my head.

This job is bullshit and I’m shitty for hating it. Yet…

I can’t stop the tears brimming in my eyes when a medley of Elton John’s greatest hits overtakes the silence in the car.

Saturday Night’s Alright sends me in a tailspin of images whizzing past — faster than the vehicles within sight.

But, it’s my father that tugs at my heart and dilapidated soul.

I grew up with his love for these tunes and as I sit — harnessed in formation while skimming through Instagram — I surrender the failure of my existence to the failure that I can’t overcome.

The pictures and captions assigned to my. conceptualized catalogue glare under the hue of traffic lights.

Insignificant me — stalking the significant and following the movements of bestselling authors, newly-minted showrunners and actresses, well-respected artists, world-renowned DJ’s and the like.

They all did their time — like I did but somehow their penance reeks of supportive materials while mine stinks.

The funk makes want to gag but instead I settle for a whimper. It’s soft and coherent enough to alert the Uber driver who inquires why.

I explain that my allergies are a mutha.

He offers tissues and I accept. I recognize buildings which, means I’m in my area.

I want to stop scrolling but I can’t. I used to be cautiously jealous — but now I’m full on. Damn these amazing girls with their gorgeous skin, gorgeous hair and gorgeous background — assisting to propel the truth behind their gorgeous lives.

Fuck me and my pathetic view that blocks my blessing but reinforces the specialties doled out to my list of followed.

This breakdown was easy. Tomorrow is going to be hard.

In the meantime I arrive home and almost hug the driver but he’s too nice to contaminate.

This virus of discontent and derangement belongs in private — where I crawl into bed after a round of buzzballs and relish the characters on Instagram that move on my command.

Breakdowns are for wimps. Fantasies are for those who wish for your life and get it by default.

So, don’t follow me. I’ll follow you.

It’s easier