The rope in question being that beautifully thin line between self-delusion and compartmentalising (and try saying that three times fast!). Those who know me in any capacity know that I can panic easily. Not in the ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh hyperventilating kind but rather in the twenty-scenarios-imagined-in-under-10-seconds kind. Bless my writer’s mind! Of course, on a good day, that means I am pretty much prepared for any eventuality up to and including the zombie apocalypse. On a bad day my inner conversation makes the Everything Wrong video series sound like a panegyric. Add to that my ever-present underlying conviction that just because I think something is a good idea, doesn’t mean other people will think so too (and no, telling me otherwise will do nothing. To paraphrase Dr. Banner; “This one’s brain is like a bag of cats.”). The result? A compulsive need to drown myself in tears (and I’m not adding Bailey’s to that because that shit is expensive!) whenever the words “covering letter” are mentioned. I can argue till Kingdom Come on Chaucer and Aristotelian philosophy, I can play Devil’s advocate for just about any Dark Side character but ask me to tell why you should hire me and all my words desert me.
I’m at my best when you shove me off the deep end and tell me to swim. Throw me a Code Red and I’ll deliver. Ask me to explain it well in advance and I’ll sound like a bumbling idiot. Hence, one of the most terrifying questions for me (right up there with “Why should we hire you?” and “How do you feel about x/y/z?”) is “What are your plans?”
Gal in my case but yeah. Homicidal Lunatic from Gotham has a point. I just kind of do things. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Some things I like/enjoy/revel in more than others. But the point is, there is no plan. No, no, no! When other people make plans, God laughs, is that not the saying? When I make plans (and declare them) it’s an automatic jinx. I kid you not, it’s happened waaaaaay often to be a coincidence.
So, until I have a divine revelation where some sort of deity swears on themselves that no, they’re not messing with me because they’re bored, please world stop asking about my plans. I’ve no plans, alright? I’ve vague ideas of possibly-good things to do. And then there’s the pile of things I should/must/am expect to do. And I try to make them coincide. Somehow. Compromise, compromise, compromise.
It’s not that I want to avoid responsibility or that I wanna stay a kid forever. I’m not bleeding Peter Pan. It’s that most of the time I’m stuck in this weird Limbo where I know all of the above, heck I even acknowledge it, but don’t know how to get out. Why? Partially because I just suck. Partially because when they taught us Home Economics at school they felt it was more important to teach us the difference between “nuclear” and “extended” family instead of, I don’t know, how to adult!