I Can't Even Write My Column For Fear I'll Realign The Stars...
They are a precarious ode to something I really don't want to fuck up.
I don’t really have much I think I can say today.
Y’all know how I do that thing that I do, where I really think that shit is finna be like a bank error in my favor, or maybe a fucking community chest…then poof! Fuck no bro. So, that’s the precariously teetered kind of situation I’m not here to talk about tonight.
I just know that if I fuck around and spill a single legume, I’m going to wish very much that I hadn’t done so. However, tempting fate and/or the ruling authority of wherever they store the good shit at, well that’s just fucking stupid.
I may often be reckless. Sometimes less than put together, mostly always on the verge of some shenanigans. But stupid? Uh uh. Nuh uh.
I really, with all of the dandelion blowing, finger crossing, eye squinching, hopeful broad I am sitting here allowing myself to be, somewhere in there is the absolute realist that keeps getting kicked in the fucking teeth.
So, the ultimate question then becomes, at what point do you allow hope to creep in? Y’all know I always say, hope is a killer. Hope is what will have you answering messages you should not answer. Hope is that terrible feeling that you have when you know in your heart of hearts, it isn’t good for you, but what if? What if I can, what if they do, what if it happens, what if….that’s hope.
I hate hope.
If good sense was sold in 5 gallon pails, mine was spilled over in the back floorboard when we took the first corner too quickly. If good sense was on a BOGO, they’re sold out and not offering rain checks at this point.
I know full well that hope will devastate you. I can tell you what hope feels like to me. I remember being in that horrible room in the hospital, the one I didn’t know existed, and I hope I never see it again. I was in Tylers lap, telling him, “if you ever believed in anything, if ever you once thought of God, I need you to pray right now, I need you to pray with me”.
And, as every other time, hope punched me in my chest, took everything in my pockets, and had the fucking nerve to leave them turned inside out.
Hope is a strong arm robber. Hope is a world-class cunt.
So, much as any other time hope showed her pock marked face at my door, I slammed it dead in her face. Go sell your dream somewhere else. I know you’re broke, busted, and can’t be trusted.
But, what if? What if this time…?
It’s posted “no trespassing” at my place. This bitch has ten minutes, and I’m calling the law.
This column really hit home with me - my life has been so full of plot twists I’m the poster child for ‘make a plan and the universe laughs’ - but I keep hoping and planning regardless - it keeps life interesting that’s for sure!
I know that feeling like i know my left boob is a little bigger than the right. Its ok, I'll hope for you. 🤞🤞