If you would have asked me a few years ago whether I was a cynic or an optimist, I would have told you I was the latter. Then I would have proceeded to tell you how big of a buzzkill I thought cynics were. I was akin to a squirrel, bopping from tree to tree, looking for nuts. When those nuts wouldn’t show up though, I would become horribly disappointed.
I’m complicated, I have layers. It isn’t that I am the atheist squirrel and think the nuts don’t exist, it is that I don’t think I will find any. However – this is the complicated part – that doesn’t stop me from looking. What it does do, is temper my expectations and prevents me from being soul crushingly disappointed when my expectations are not met.
I am no longer an optimist, I am not sure if I ever was. Regardless, now I am covered by the great big blanket of cynicism. It keeps me nice and temperate. I am never too cold. Beads of sweat don’t dampen my worried brow. Hell, my brow isn’t even all that worried because on some level, I have already dealt with that shit.
Optimism on the other hand is a blanket that looks like the fabric was produced in a Kopi Luwak like process. Instead of involving a coffee bean pooping cat, it involves a rainbow cotton candy ingesting unicorn. Unicorn’s digestive tracts are far more complex than ours and leave much to speculation, but you know what I am getting at. However, this great billowy blanket turns out to be made from the starched nether hairs of the rare and entirely made up Golden Yak of Hoboken.
I scratch the incessant itch. There is a hole in in the middle of the blanket. One of those kind of holes that I keep hooking with my foot and making worse. Speaking of feet, the blanket is so short they or my shoulders stick out of their respective ends. I turn the volume up on the television due to all the huffing and puffing I have to do the keep the tassel along the border of the blanket out of my face.
By the time I realize that I have scratched through my skin to the point that I am bleeding, it is too late. I can’t find the phone to call an ambulance. Even if I could it wouldn’t matter because I’ve lost the remote in the blanket and the television is yelling at me about painting my lawn and shrubs green. I am sure the dispatcher would hear something like, “Help I’m bleeding to death, call now and receive a second bottle absolutely free.”
My survival instinct kicks into overdrive! I leap off the couch in a last ditch effort to locate both the phone and the remote. I get tangled in the blanket and on way down, hit my head on the bidet. Why is there a bidet in the middle of my living room I ponder as blackness takes me? “Because optimism disappoints,” an ethereal voice answers. I am disappointed because I thought having a bidet would be so much cooler.
Meanwhile, cynicism looks like a worn out, busted ass blanket that no washed up forty six year old child actor wants to use. A variety of hair is visible on the pilling sky blue bodice. There is a brown stain on it. I’m pretty sure it is chocolate milk, but I cannot be certain. Upon closer inspection one would find that there is an intoxicatingly comfortable softness to the material. Is that a valeur, cotton, polyester mix? “It is whatever you want it to be,” the same ethereal voice answers albeit with a note of contentment. Better yet, there is enough material to cover myself and a friend and still remain in the friendzone. There is even a nifty pocket for the remote and the phone. The best part? No tassels!
Why? Because cynics have already thought of almost everything. What could go wrong, what could go right, and what could go wrong with the stuff that went right. Check your hope before you’re wrecked like a dope and check your expectations before you’re screaming damnations. Namaste.