On Your Mark, Get Set, Go!

Ignorance is bliss. 

I see them all around me, just floating through life wearing rose colored glasses, blissfully unaware of the approaching rapids. Smiling, content with their dissonance. 

I am not them. 

I think about shit. Too much shit. On days when my shit is too much, I think about everyone else’s shit and when that’s too much, I drink about it. 

I am intuitive to a fault. I sense motive. I assign meaning to nuance and body language. A nervous tick, the curl of a lip, a twitch of the eye; all catalogued and analyzed against known behavior. I recognize patterns. Patterns predict behavior. I apply the same method when predicting the outcome of a scenario. 

If it is likely to affect me negatively, I get the fuck out. Leaving may suck, but not as much as waiting to leave. There is no greater torment than the anticipation of pain. If I cannot control it, I will control its pace. 

I run. 

Away. Away is predictable. Away cannot hurt me.

Sleeves is moving away. Not far away, but away enough to disrupt our pattern of behavior. A little old lady from across the Sound is investing her Great Grandchildren’s inheritance in the always stable real estate market. His fear of commitment, as evidenced by his decision to rent versus own, has landed this Octogenarian the deal of her century. 

He is moving onto a boat. Yes, a boat. This is bucket-list shit for him and he’s thrilled. I am not. I am even less thrilled with the realization that I am not thrilled. 

There has never been a shortage of honesty between us; I am not on his bucket-list. I do not have a bucket-list due to my fear of disappointment, but it is sufficient to say it has been understood this a temporary situation. I should be thrilled for him. 

I believe the only difference between crazy and sane is crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Introspection and awareness are the only things standing between me and a straight jacket, so I think about shit. 

Conclusion: I’ve been an asshole. Not pee-in-a-cop-car asshole, but an asshole nonetheless. I’ve been cranky and unnecessarily snotty in anticipation of his move and an attitude adjustment was in order. Where’s the cane? Just fucking kidding. I don’t need the cane. Seriously, fuck that thing. 

My attitude adjustment came in the form of a Dorito. Yes, a Dorito. After watching him pay way too much money for the best oysters I’ve ever put in my mouth, drinking just enough Jameson, and establishing dominance in the field of Jell-O shot extraction, we ended the day at Grandma’s beach house. As I attempted my best Bear Grylls impression and tried to build a fire with crumbled tortilla chips, it occurred to me; I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. 

I could be hit by a bus, and with my luck, I wouldn’t die. I’d live the rest of my life as a potato; stuck in my skull, wishing for another day like today. This time, instead of running into oncoming traffic, I’m going to let it be. I’m going to be present. I’m going to press pause instead of fast forward. This time, I’m going to stay through to the last scene, pink tinted aviators and all.  

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