So I see this tweet, and I think: wouldn’t it simplify things if we could just die tomorrow? Then we wouldn’t need to worry about studying at all. Or planning.
Well.
Yeah.
That is true. I’d be much less concerned about what time kickoff is for the Wazzu game, for instance, if I was dead.
Simple. Yep.
Love hurts,
love scars,
love wounds
And mars, any heart
Not tough or strong enough
To take a lot of pain
–Nazareth/Love Hurts
I was thinking about some of the people I love yesterday, and wanted to write about them, or recognize them in some way. It would be a nice list. A warm, fuzzy list. Sort of like favorite songs or books. Or things I’m grateful for. Only way better, because, you know, LOVE.
But then the cold meds started to wear off, my brain got a little less scrambled, and I thought “are you fucking NUTS?!? This is a terrible idea!”
Why terrible? Well, I mean, duh. Let me count the ways. It really isn’t a good idea in any way at all, because you can’t count love. Some people don’t like seeing their names in print. Some people might feel bad if I wrote that I loved them and they didn’t reciprocate. Some people would be hurt if they were left off the list. I might feel like I have to include people I don’t really love for various reasons.
So the idea was, rightfully, scrapped.
Of course, that will leave me forever wondering if you would be more upset if you weren’t on my list?
Or if you were?
Would you disapprove of some of the other people on the list?
Yes, it is quite hard to be me. I think like this all the time. It’s not easy, and I am so glad someone noticed.
On an only marginally related note, my heart aches. Not because of love, but because coughing has squeezed it too much. It feels disconcertingly like a plain old-fashioned heartache. It makes me feel a little more breakable than I like to feel. Every time I cough, I feel lovesick.
I’m in the mentally and emotionally awkward position of having to convince my brain that my heart isn’t really broken. It just thinks it is.
Since it thinks its broken it’s making me feel like I am. Which, as we all know, sucks.
It’s really not the first time I’ve confused love and sickness.
Probably won’t be the last.
Never get to say much, never get to talk
Tell us a little bit, but not too much
Right about then, is where she give up
She has closed her eyes, she has give up hope–Talking Heads/Houses In Motion
Here’s a bold statement: giving up hope is not always a bad thing.
You heard me right. I said that isn’t always bad to give up hope.
It isn’t!
Like everything else it life, hope can be kind of a bitch.
In its biggest, baddest form hope reaches a point where it turns from doing everything you can to make sure a loved one gets the best possible medical care to causing your loved one unnecessary suffering by prolonging their life.
It’s the difference between a rational hope that if you give someone you love a little space and time to grow up that you will be happy together in the end , and letting someone who will never change use you as a doormat for years.
It’s the difference between taking singing lessons to improve your native vocal talent so you can take a shot at a music career and continuing to take singing lessons in hopes of becoming an opera singer even though every music teacher tells you that you’re tone deaf.
Don’t get me wrong, I think that hope is one of the things that gets us through life. There are a lot of obstacles that we need to get past before we get pretty much anything we want. Without hope we’d have no motivation to strive to reach those goals. Why even have a goal if you don’t hope to reach it?
People always talk about hope and faith going hand in hand, but maybe hope’s best friend should be common sense, not faith.
And sometimes it’s OK to hold onto even an irrational hope, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. Including you. I’ve got a couple of relatively irrational hopes that I won’t be giving up any time soon. Probably never.
I hope I make it to work tomorrow without coughing up a lung.
I hope I make it through the night without waking up as Michael Jackson.
Oh. Those aren’t the irrational hopes.
Never mind about them.
They’re mine.
