Friday, February 19, 2010

That Rare Five Percent...

When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

Or so the saying goes. I'm not much for a good cliche--come to think of it, I'm not much for a bad one, either. However, sometimes it just sums it all up so perfectly, so wonderfully, so... cliche-y. And really, aren't cliches just the stereotyping of situations? "Oh, I know just what you're going through." No, you don't, so stop trying to identify.

I know--I'm just in "one of those moods." Or so I've been told. I know I am, but sometimes I like disagreeing just to disagree--the bonus being pissing you off. Sometimes making you feel bad makes me feel better. Of course, then the angel and the demon pop up on my shoulders:

Angel: Now, now, you know you need to go apologize.
Demon: Come on, they had it coming!
Angel: That's no reason to be mean...
Demon: The hell it isn't! Did you see that smirk? That 'Haha! He's finally getting his'!
Angel: I think you may be misinterpreting there...
Demon: Go in for the kill!
Angel: Back off, be the sweetie everyone thinks you are!
Demon: Sweet sucks! Kill, kill, kill!
Angel: Lay off! Treat others how you would like to be treated!
And so on... Truth be told, Angel wins most of the time. Make that 90 percent of the time. Okay, okay, 95 percent of the time. What can I say? Perhaps I am nothing more than a big, fat, smoochie-smoochie, hippie-love type of guy.

Be assured, however--it's NOT what I'm thinking, but what I think you want to hear that you hear. 95 percent of the time...

It's a funk. I haven't had quality alone-time in at least 3 weeks, I have yet to work through all the emotions I roller-coasted through the last 10 days (Is he dying? Doe she know I love him? Is this normal? Why does this human being have more tubes and wires hooked up to him then my receiver? What did his mom mean by that? Will he remember this? Will he be the same after this? Medical malpractice or just "shit happens"? and so on...), and I miss normal. As in, not this right now. As in, the way it was two weeks ago. As in, This. Fucking. Sucks.

When it's all said and done, I know we'll share a good chuckle over these events. In ten years it will be a fading memory, a speed bump in the road of life that could have easily been a "Dead End" in other situations.

Is this the part where you suggest I seek out therapy? Having never had therapy ("Ah," you're thinking, "no therapy ever--that's his issue..."), the only thing I would think to expect is a leather couch, a heavy German accent, and questions about my childhood ("Mostly happy" I would reply, my eyes rolling up and back toward the direction of the heavy German accent behind me...).

Of course, I think too many people already rely on therapy and some of them just need a good swift kick in the ass and a "Get the fuck over it already!" shouted in their general vicinity. But that may be just me and my need for therapy. Or the fact that I let Angel win too many of the across-the-shoulder fights.

I'm not even that fond of lemonade... Especially when it's pink.

Just tell me to get the fuck over it already. (Maybe you'll get lucky and catch me during that rare 5 percent...)

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