I don’t know why I do the dumb things that I do. It’s not genetic. I can’t blame it one someone else. I’m just a dumb, dumb idiot; a true nincompoop, if ever there was one. Why? I’ll get to it.
I’ve got baggage. One woman a dated long ago dubbed me “baggage boy” in her blog. Yep. I had lots of shit to deal with; I still do, but it’s neatly tucked away now and there for all to see. That is, I don’t have a problem telling people what things I’ve got in my carry-ons.
I have reflected on the series of dumb things I’ve done in life and where it’s all brought me to. I’ve been with some good women the last few years. I’ve been lucky in love in that sense, because I did find women who I loved and who loved and respected me. I walked away from each relationship though. Friends and family shook their heads in disbelief. My grandfather cussed “The fucking, kid is no kid! Fuck!” (followed by a plethora of expletives rapidly fired in Español).
These decisions, each time, have made life a little more difficult than it had been previously and has brought up a series of questions, with few answers at the ready.
Do I like to do dumb things? Perhaps. Do I fear commitment? Eh, I dunno. I’d like to think it doesn’t scare me. I wanted marriage with both of my previous exes. The kids thing was always the sticking issue, though. Finding people to talk to on this topic is hard because people tend to want kids. I’m in the minority of social misfits that don’t want them.
I knew I could always turn to my partner-in-blog, Taylor Cast, but then she went and got preggo. Now she’s excited. Fucking gross! Fuck, fuckity-fuck! I am not amused; not one bit and everywhere I turn are people with their chubby faced, wee babies. Queue my rolling of the eyes.
There are more decisions I’ve shied away from over the years that have clouded and made more difficult a life. I’m not alone here. Perhaps I should revisit these obvious patterns in life and reassess.
I know. This is a boring ass introspective post with little meaning to you, the reader, no doubt. That’s okay. If you want to derive meaning from something, start your own blog asshole.
Until next time, leave me to ambiguity, salted wounds and up close photos of the horizon…