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Note to self:

Never ever do that again. The act was impulsive, foolish, uncalled for.

Please, don’t do that. You didn’t know you were making a choice, granted. But now you know you shouldn’t have. So, please, don’t do that anymore.

You’re going to pay. You’ll literally buy inanimate objects, any item you can get your hands on, to make up for overstepping. All week, the search for solace is on. You’ll master weakness, flexing non-muscles, all the while, avoiding the mirror.

Vulnerability is not something to trifle with. You’ve exposed yourself. Your thoughts and wishes have been unreturned. You can’t expect anyone to know what or how to meet your innermost needs.

You’re not going to be happy, now. You know that. You’ve been in this situation, this time-warp space of thinking, before.

You’re going to last only so long.

You took a chance. The insane effort to squeeze joy from an enormous stress ball. Wider and taller than you. The big bundle of complication you tried to wrap your arms around was ambitious and strenuous. The big sphere of anguish you attempted to squish is nothing but an upright sinkhole.

You didn’t know any better, and you are no better for it.

You are, however, wiser. Cautioned to be cautious.

You made the wrong call. Literally, phoning first thing in the morning to offer sound advice. And, ironically, you’ve learned your lesson.

Never call your grandmother at the end of tax season.

Dan Jones

Author Dan Jones

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