Hope

September 2009 to March 2010-4527

Hope, I dressed it in a clown suit years ago, and treated it like a fart at the dinner table— not mine. I heckled all who held hope in high esteem. Life is not a children’s party? What is this hope nonsense you speak of? Have you been into the cracka lacka? Have you taken a good look at the world lately? It is ridiculous to hope. You have to plan to get things done— look at the North Korean leader, Kim Jong-un, he is currently writing the How to do a Nuclear Missile Test For Dummies handbook. Planning, people, it takes planning. Hope belongs to Olympic athletes, and teenage girls waiting on their pregnancy test pee stick. It belongs to kindergarten kids who want that extra scoop of bubble gum ice cream on their cake. Hope is not a realistic option for most ordinary adults.

My hopeless life continues, I work; I change jobs more than a pregnant lady has to pee, and then I don’t work. I consider becoming a free-lance writer, but that is an outlandish notion. As though clowns really do have red noses, or abnormally large feet. (If they did I am sure they would have more girlfriends, if you know what I mean? Wink, wink.) The number of talented writers in the world continues to replicate, almost at the same speed as China’s population. Seriously, who needs one more hopeful writer? Years go by and I do not write. I ignore that deep desire to put words on paper.  That would be too much like dressing up with the clowns. Nope, there is no sense jumping into that three-ring circus of disappointment. I am a practical positive person. At least I thought I was positive, but then I was lambasted in the face with a rubber chicken, in the form of a quote by Benjamin Disraeli, “I am prepared for the worst but hope for the best.”

Holy hell in a hand basket! For the last umpteen years I have only been preparing for the worst. I did not consider the best could happen. I did not hope, nor dream, and therefore did not really try. All the planning in the world would only get me as far as I allowed myself to hope. I consistently prepared for the worst— better get your radiation suit, don’t forget the gas mask, batten down the hatches matey, be on the look out for the white whale. You must keep all your hands and feet inside the vehicle, in the event of a zombie attack, objects may appear closer than they actually are…beware.

So spank me cross-eyed, I realize I need hope in my life. Being hopeful gives you vision, and supports ambition. Yes, there are many talented writers on this planet, but maybe, just maybe, with a lot of absolute vodka, and planning, I could become a writer. As Emily Dickinson once said, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tunes without the words, and never stops at all.” In my freshly opened mind, I sing words to be spilled onto paper, like an endless exodus of clowns tumbling from the bum of a Volkswagen van.

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