500 words exactly!
I really, really hope more people will come back and post what they did with that line :) C'mon... you have the whole weekend... do it for me, please? Pretty please with sugar/chocolate/rum/butter-chicken/whatever-you-like on top?
In this case, it would be incorrect to assume Occam’s Razor. Yes, it’s delightfully simple to conclude I’ve got trust issues, but it’s also lazy-brain work to only think as far as the simplest solution.
It’s not about trust, it’s about having zero expectations, because everyone is hardwired to look out for the big fat number one. If you want to throw a comfortable label on my way of looking at things, I’d call it realism. Sure, lots of people come at you with good intentions, but then wham, shit blows up and you end up trampled in the wake of self-preservation.
Or in my case, stranded on a freaking roof with two amazingly unattractive choices.
The painfully simple ‘option one’ is to make that big step and take the fast way down to pancakeville. The ever-exciting ‘option number two’ is to sit here and wait for someone to find me.
Maybe that doesn’t sound like a proper choice at all, but the single piece of highly critical information in play here, is knowing that whoever finds me won’t be coming with good intentions.
It seems unnecessarily redundant to say they’ll have very horrible, irrevocably bad intentions, but it’s the repetition of reminding myself over and over of that fact, that’s got me standing on the edge, about to leap-of-faith myself into sidewalk art forty-six stories down.
So yeah, this is why I have no expectations, because I know right now I would throw a hundred people off this roof myself if it meant I didn’t have to choose between options one and two. In fact, I’d toss over another fifty for an umbrella, a warm jacket, and a tall Americano with an extra shot of espresso.
Self-preservation strips away all every flashy, moralistic notion of civilized normality, and kicks us right back to the cave where we had to run like hell just to eat and survive another day.
And worse than knowing you can’t count on people, and having that knowledge validated at such an unfortunate time and place, is the fact that I bent my rules for a pretty face, and a set of double-D’s nestled tight in a push-up bra and baby-blue tank-top.
People may screw you over to save their own asses, but the opposite sex will do it just because they can.
It rips my heart out to know how easily I fell prey, how she barely had to flutter those long eyelashes and lean forward across my desk, breasts squeezed between my Linksys modem and Fujitsu ScanSnap scanner, before my brain got stupid trying to show off how smart I was.
Self-preservation may be an uncontrollable instinct, but so is the damn sex-drive which short-circuits the frontal lobe on a slim chance of getting laid.
But I’m out of time.
She’s got the flashdrive, and I’ve got a modern-art installation piece to paint on a fresh, cement canvas.