I’m a little sad after our trip. I wish I felt closer to Rob and his family. I felt comfortable with them all weekend, more than I expected, but since coming home, all I can think of is them talking about me and how fucked up my kids and I are. I can’t help comparing myself to him and feeling like I don’t measure up. He has money and a beautiful wife and happy children and the passion to follow an impossible dream with unending confidence. I don’t know what it is that I think I have to prove to him or anyone, or why I should feel ashamed of my Jimi Hendrix muscle shirt or the fucking fact that I wear glasses. (Seriously, this is something I felt was a defect he’d judge.) It comes from an old hurt I’ve felt for many, many years. I never felt I compared to Rob. He always had friends and made funnier movies than me and told better stories. People always just liked him better. But I love this picture, and I love him whether he appreciates it or not. I backed away from Mom out of fear and I live with that regret every day. I do not want the same regrets with Rob. I guess he’s stuck with me and my Hendrix shirt and my kids who won’t talk to him and my couch with three legs and the Maltese who shits in the house. He could do worse.
Year in Photos 