Fair

I always complain about my life and things. But really, I'm so, so thankful.

I'm thankful for great friends, especially David, who I don't see as much of anymore unfortunately, but that's hardly his fault. I'm pretty impressed with the way he figured out what he wanted to do, a thing most people consider a silly childhood fantasy, and made it happen. If the rest of us possessed a quarter of his will to achieve, then we would be beyond most modern problems. David is the most impressive specimen of humanity I have ever encountered, I don't think there is a single quality he has that is not enviable.

Jenni, of course it goes without saying, I'm incredibly grateful to have around. She's a woman of unusual taste, which is fortunate for me, because I doubt she would have ever fancied me at all if that were otherwise. She's forgiving, possessed of an impressive intellect, kind, and more beautiful to look at than a soft place to lie down after a week of no sleep. Trust me. I know.

But also all my friends, I am thankful of. They're good people, except perhaps one, and I'm happy to know I'm not an island. As a whole, they're wonderful people. Always ready to overlook the latestly horribly rude or vile thing I've done for some stupid reason.

My mother works incredibly hard for her family in a job that is sometimes so stressful it makes her feel sick, to the point of immobility. She gets so much hard luck she doesn't deserve, and still finds time to be a really nice lady. She's unbelievably devoted to her home.

I'm also pretty pleased with my possessions. I'm a pretty material person - I don't mean that I'm obsessed with owning the world, but rather I take comfort from the reliability of the things I own. Such as my watch, or my leatherman, or the phone I'm using to write this. If I were without but one if those things for a day, I'd be very distressed. But other things too. My clothes that fit me nicely, and my sturdy boots.

I often feel terribly guilty that such a poor person was given such great people to hang around and such wonderful things to touch and taste and smell. It makes me sad that most anyone from some country where the children starve would be better fitted to live my life, and love the people I love so much more effectively, and truly, and with a greater capacity for expressing that love.

But that is not the way of things. The good perish, and the wicked thrive. I am proof of the injustice of life, that this place will not reward the great, the brilliant, and the selfless, anymore than anyone. Rather, it is willing to give a genius moldy bread, and me, the worst kind of person (before people who literally go out to cause suffering) a new laptop.

Oh well.

Carlotta.

"Goddamn the whole fucking world and everyone in it, except you Carlotta."

The last words of William Claude Duncanfield.

(Carlotta, was not his wife, but his mistress.)



Sometimes, everything in life clicks along on bright brass rails. Click clack!
You can feel it moving forward like a determined little train.

Other times...

Well, I can be surprised how many things all go wrong all at once. I'm not terribly horrified, or "here is my life as a house of cards oh god oh god watch them tumble down" panicky. It's more of a sullen squelchly feeling, sitting in my chest, like a toad. Just when I think I've started to enjoy this moment, the toad burps, and I'm reminded, no, enjoyment is for other people.

That's what one gets I suppose. In hell, the smoker is rolled into a cigar and all that.

Well, fuck it. If I have had to make bad decisions, at least I know why it was I made them. That's more than can be said for many.

I don't believe that God hates me. But all the angels of His heavenly host are booing, and throwing old fruit at me, while they watch the play that is my life.

*shrug* I can deal with hecklers. YOU DON'T LIKE IT? YOU CAN GO SHOVE YOUR HALOS UP YOUR HOLIER THAN THOU ANUSES.

Fucking angels. What do they know?

Risk

I play a game. It's call "risk".

It was originally a board game, but I play it as an app on my phone, against the simulated players. They aren't real. That's very important.

The aim of the game is to conquer the world through taking over countries of the world, while your opponents attempt to do same. You start off with maybe five or six players. But it will eventually be whittled down to just two.

The exact details of game mechanics aren't really relevant. But my favorite tactic is to build up a large army of at least fifty men, over a few turns, then crush a whole opponent in one turn.

Sometimes this works so well, that it is I and one other player, that is has but one army left, in one cornered region. What I should then do is destroy this last enemy. Then the victory screen comes up, it has fireworks and triumphant music. It's very nice.

But... I don't kill that one last foe. I let it live. It fights back against me, but to no avail. The tendrils of hope it sends out against me are instantly crushed by my now colossal force.

So there it sits. A lone defender. Waiting death. Alive only by my mercy.

If it were a person, I'd explain to it, that I don't want to kill it. It and I could be friends. We could work together to make this tiny simulated world a better place. Turn over these years of war-strewn horror for a time of peace and kindness. But it won't have that. It still tries to fight me. It defies me!

Well, that's not it's fault. What else could it do? Sometimes I even let it escape and build up its numbers again, give it, if not a genuine chance, a reason to believe I've made a serious mistake. Could it not now conquer the world, too?

The answer is inevitably no. Even as this happens out I roll the huge juggernaut that is my reserve troops. Its resistance is destroyed utterly, like an insect.

Sometimes... I want to fight it to the last man, then stop. Surrender. Lay down arms and to the other players astonishment, allow myself to be run through and collapsed on the eve of my total dominion.

But that, sadly, is not how life works in risk.

Or in life.

Life is a savage place. And my risk metaphor is as transparent as the lie of peace.

Young John Green Tells a Story