I'm A Lucky Guy

I had a co-worker tell me I was lucky. I have a perfect life. Couldn't understand why I get stressed.

The urge to put a pair of scissors through someone's neck is a healthy urge. It's a primal urge. It's, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.

I'll admit, I have some incredible aspects of my life. My daughter, my friends, the fact that people seem to like what I write -- those are good things. I don't discount them. To say I'm lucky and have a perfect life is a stretch. It comes not from a place of ignorance, but of blindness.

Lucky guys don't throw up blood. Perfect lives do not include fifty percent custody. h soundtrack and then Shit Gets Done. That doesn't happen, though. The love scenes never work out the same because those positions don't work as good as you think they would. Those flowery speeches where love is declared to conquer all come pre-equipped with stammers. The rain never falls just right. The girl sometimes gets away ... and you don't get her back.

For once I wish it were perfect, and that I was lucky, and that all those problems would be solved within ninety minutes. There's no gaffer, though. No credits to roll. And this guy's life doesn't come with a score. It's filled with awkward moments, distrust and a sense of dread as I wait for the other shoe to fall.

Real is the original "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." Real is "I Stand Alone." Real is a handgun in your face one night, held by a random stranger. Real is sex that should somehow feel more fulfilling but will do ... for now. Real is a marriage that falls apart for no apparent reason, a break-up with as little reason, a daughter who wants her family back and a sense that the main character is no longer marching toward his doom, but has instead entered the final stages like gangbusters. Real is what happens when your plans go to shit.

When I started this blog, I was going to cover things that interested me. Music, movies, video games and so on. It wasn't meant to be my therapy, but it has turned into that. Personal private thoughts in a public forum. If I said these things on a street corner I'd be prophet crazy. Here, safe from direct stares, I can play God.

If I were lucky, if I had a perfect life, I'd be asleep right now. My daughter would be in her room, close enough to mine that I can sometimes hear her gentle sleep breathing. I would be able to reach over and wrap my arms around someone, keep her warm because I'm good at that. Know that I wouldn't care what she looked like in the morning because that's a reality I enjoy. I would wake up and make a pot of coffee and actually eat ... and not wonder when it was coming up. I would have a best-selling book. My job would be less stressful. I wouldn't be worried about my little girl, and I sure as hell wouldn't worry that I am going to die alone.

Instead, I worry. I'm getting my items together to sell and give away. I'm thinking that alone is how it is going to be, and I'm not too keen on that. I don't know how to meet people. I don't like people. I've been lucky enough (yeah, I said it) that in my past relationships they sort of just happened. Guess what? I'm 38. That shit doesn't just happen anymore.

I finally feel my age. Older, actually. I shouldn't care about this shit, but I do. I shouldn't give a fuck, but I can't help it. Yeah, a perfect life for a lucky guy. I can cure cancer with a touch and make puppies dance on command.

Maybe I need to see life through this person's eyes. See what they see. Maybe I'm mistaken. I can tell you this, though, I'm the one living my damn life. I'm the one up at midnight thinkin' I'll be lucky to get two hours sleep. I think I have a pretty good grasp on what my life is and how my luck should play out.

What is that Rollins Band song? "Gun in Mouth Blues." Click. Bang. Yeah, I'm a lucky guy.

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