I am not particularly smart.
I mean sure, the last time I took an IQ test I tested off the charts. And yes, I’m fairly well read and can hold a conversation about anything from Stanislavsky to Star Ship.
What I mean to say is, I’m not people smart.
I can read people fairly well. I have a keen sense of personal energy and all that new age bullshit.
I guess though, the real problem is, I don’t listen to what I perceive. Because I want so badly to be wrong sometimes. I know that most people would kill to be as accurate and precise as I.
But for once I’d like to be proven wrong.
I’d like someone to prove to me that they are what they seem. I’d like to rest assured that feelings don’t have to be unreliable. That there are some things that are sacred, solid.
I’d like someone to prove to me that love is enough.
The problem is, of course, that I am always right.
And I don’t believe any of those things
I have learned though, when to say when. I wasn’t always great with it, sometimes I’m still not. Sometimes it takes me longer than is good or healthy or sane.
But when I say uncle, I mean it.
This is a story about saying when. Even if you’re two years too late.
Like most stories, mine at least, this one is makes the most sense if you start at the ending…