My plan is to just type. Write. It’s not ambitious. Or noteworthy. And it’s not for dollars. But I’m proud of it. Proud because the writing is thinking and this thinking is my own. Doing this let’s me work through this act of existing. I learn from mistakes because I admit when I make them. I’ll bend, but won’t break. I’m not going to bow to those that profess to know. Nor am I going to neglect those that can’t write a complete sentence.
And there are a lot of those. Just hop on social media and scroll for thirty seconds.
Some call this the middle. Not taking a stance. But they only say that because they are on one side or the other and they can’t stand on their own.
Put your ideas in the suggestion box. When I have a moment, I’ll read them.
Most of them won’t make the short list.
Adaptability is the key to survival. If you only know how to make a living one way and you aren’t willing to start from scratch at any moment to do whatever it takes for those you love, you’re fucked.
But people don’t want to hear that.
They want to be supported. Held up high by their boundaries, flags, chest-thumping, and traditional mantras, and they want the other side to come over to theirs. Not because it’s right, but because it’s easier to have others give in than it is to explain what you believe. Instead of growing, digging deep, and tweaking as we go, we troll. Cherry pick. Surround ourselves with information that supports our narrative. Put on the blinders and follow. The left. The right. God. Satan. The shepherd. The sheep. Little Bo Peep. A prophecy of UFOs.
There’s so much to see. So much to learn. And so little time.
Mothers eat their weak. Omega males destroy Alphas. And chickens peck other chickens to death.
Be vigil. Make sure the farmer sneaks you in at night. If you’re in the flock, you already know what to do. It’s innate. Be mindful…birds of a different feather…
Even a strong person paying attention gets hit by a bus. It’s interesting if you think about it. The driver, watching a fight between a birther and a bird watcher, accidentally jumps the curb, and flattens a man that was walking home.
Finally, he had made it. For three years, he’d been investing spare change and overtime dollars into cryptocurrency. He’d done the research. Picked his horses for the race. Nobody believed in him, except his wife. Not his parents, not his friends. Not his financial advisor. Not even his drunk Uncle Ted with the gambling problem. But now the bulls were running.
He was up. Way up, up, up. He could hardly believe it. From here on out, his family would live comfortably. He would not have to work. All the patience, the praying, the late nights checking prices, wondering if he’d placed the right bets had paid off. All he had to do was get home, get connected, transfer dollars, and then he could show his wife that he was right.
The mortgage, paid.
The 4-Runner loan, paid.
Visa, done.
Student loans no longer.
All he had to do was get home.
My plan is to just type. Write. It’s not ambitious. Or noteworthy. But fuck you. Take your sides. Slap on those blinders. Keep poking, prodding, posting. Whether or not this is reality, The Matrix, or a bit of undigested beef, all of it keeps going round and round and round. Where it stops, nobody knows.
So, pick what you love, but be able to adapt.
One day, in this life or another, you might be a wife nervously waiting at home to tell your husband that his obsession with crypto and dreams of being wealthy to help family and friends and strangers has been too much. It’s taken its toll. You and the kids are leaving. There’s this man you met on Tinder. A bus driver that actually runs a route through the neighborhood. He doesn’t make much money, but he has conviction. He knows when to take a stand. He’s focused on inequalities. The bigger picture, and keeping the peace between men.
~cryptokj