Monday, January 23, 2012

The Tragedy of Being Excellent

It's very very hot outside and it's night and when I was four Jenny W who was a friend of my mum's let me play in her walk in robe and inside the robe was a black dress with a print of a bird on it with an elasticised boob part and Jenny W said I could keep the dress and I somehow kept it for years and years and today I wore it. I'm wearing it now in front of the tennis. It's extremely 70s. And I'm watching Djokovic smear Lleyton Hewitt all over the tennis court like he's a tiny ant. Djokovic just looks so centred, a bit like the stillness of a cat with a sad little mouse. And the cat just wishes the mouse could give him some competition. Poor, bored old cat. For entertainment he sometimes lets the mouse run away a little bit before dragging him back again and again, just winning, winning... winning. Poor Djokovic, just too good. Like me with Boggle. I'm quite good at some games, but at Boggle I'm untouchable. It's led to extreme feelings of boredom - a bit like old Djokovic, out there, just too excellent. Cool Djokovic just out there on the court, in a league of his own, fluid, beautiful, at ease, while little Lleyts fumbles around, scrabbling to survive. It's humiliating. Barbaric. I feel like this when I tear someone to smithareens in Boggle - Mr Rabbit, my nan, anyone - make them cry. I try to reel them in towards me but I'm just too far ahead. I don't know why - the letters just agree with my brain, it's breathtaking - I can just see hundreds of combinations of words before me as the sand in the little egg timer stutters its way out. 

It's lonely being really excellent at something. I really feel Djokovic's pain.

Ooh Lleyts just got a set.

Djokovic let him run away a bit, the tease.

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