I thought about writing a piece on how I sometimes look at young women with a physical resemblance to my daughter and wonder if that’s her in the future at a given age. Then imagine this as the future with me seeing her and reporting back. Then worry that I’m that creepy guy scoping out the young ladies. I hate how neuroses always turn the topic in a tedious inward direction. So for now that idea is no bigger than a sentence.
Or I could write about my tabletop game development partnership and how it’s like an Italian marriage without the sex (because, dude, the guy is a dwarf). But then it would turn into self recrimination about how I’m half of the genius and ego equation and thus half the problem. Plus, which of is is going to pitch this game next year? The dwarf is brilliant but doesn’t know when to shut up. I’m not going to do it–good lord, I’d be mortified! So the descent continues.
Then there’s the moral quandary of my employment running projects for aerial collection systems development with the DOD as the biggest customer. A tool that could be used for so much good sold to the cigar chomper with deep pockets. And now I’m loathing myself for masking a request to help me find a new, low 6 figure paying job doing something ethical.
My only hope is my daughter, so far untouched by adult hopes and failures. I still have time to mold her. But I won’t be a jello mold like my parents. I’ll be a bundt cake mold, a steel mold, a titanium 3d printer. If I don’t fail. No, I’ll just shut up and go spend more heroin money I don’t have at Powell’s Books (which is only 5 feet away).
Text brought to you by the ickier streets of Portland, which remind me how good I have it and how easy I could fall into them. Don’t get me started.