i tire of my own attempts to explain as whimsy what is in fact just irresponsibility tied directly to the fact i expect the world to indulge me, and if it does (and it does usually) it does in ways that send me skittering along the very vertiginous edges of consequence, from which i come away lucky, almost but not quite intact. lessons are contaminated by the panic or obscured by the numbness that follows, and any advantages granted in the reprieve are generally spent indulging my self-inflicted diminished and incapacitated self, a luxury which is surely not due me; this is no less an injustice than anything else i protest against, but let's leave the hypocrisy out of this, please? oh just humor me, i'm fragile dammit.
and i sit here scribbling something intended as penance, which is aviodance disguised in terms of critical analytical self-obsessed rhetoric. and i sit and consider the consequences i have yet to face and find i'm facing the fact i can't imagine my way out of this. and i sit and stall, doing nothing, knowing it will be my undoing and yet i am sitting here still, scribbling.
and still i offer myself absolution in advance of any evidence i've changed, accepting this dubious resolve as all i have to offer in return, even though the gesture is empty at best and it gets worse: already i've begun to fidget and chafe and shift under the burden, alert for avenues of escape to the extent i'm practically frantic, which leaves little energy for change; whatever is left will most likely be applied superficially to the appearance of change.
and if all i can manage is the maintenance of appearances, that might pass for an accomplishment of sorts and would certainly count as change, since the obviousness is often the worst part of this mess. which means change is within reach, and yes this counts. whether i move toward the goal or move the goal toward me, the amount of progress is the same, and this makes all the difference.
thus the urgency of doing the impossible and my scant chance at success are transformed through the magic of lowered expectations, and the resulting relief from the stress of almost hopelessness is an achievement of no small significance: this makes the hours i spent composing this time not spent, but invested. i close this with confidence soaring, knowing if i can dish out this much unmitigated bullshit in just one night, thereby snatching victory out of the jaws of the most egregious flakiness, well, the possibilities are ... limited only by how easy they are. and how many easy things are there? oodles, baby, oodles. well, several. and how many words did it take to turn one pathetic loser into the force of nature you see before you now? yeah. i'm that good.
