a chronicle of primitive paranoia

[franksolich]

“I’m doomed,” I said to the business partner as we sped through the scenic Sandhills of Nebraska earlier in the afternoon.

“Several months ago, when the last sole surviving person who could possibly remember franksolich as the naïve innocent incompetent youngest brother died, I thought, ‘well, I don’t have to live with that image any more, as people’ll start thinking of me in terms of my actual age and competence.’

“Alas, that doesn’t seem to have happened; people are still treating me as some fragile, delicate flower that needs protected, and I consider that an insult to me.”

In an oblique way, I was referring to the business partner himself, but fortunately he took no offense, as he could think of plenty of other people to blame.

“You know, my parents had the right idea,” I continued; “because I was born a phenomenon about which they weren’t sure how to handle, they just decided to let things evolve their natural ways.

“This ‘expecting the worst, but hoping for the best’ sort of thing.

“They certainly felt no need to ‘protect’ me from life.”

“Oh, but you forget,” the business partner replied; “when you were three and a half years old and they left you up to your own devices, you ran out in front of a car, and got smashed flatter than a toad that’s been stepped on.”

“But you forget too,” I rebutted; “true, it could’ve killed me, but I learned something from it.  It’s not like I never learn, and don't grow up.”

the end