Over the past few years I've developed a syndrome. This isn't just any syndrome-this is "Grass-Is-Greener-Syndrome." This syndrome is a catastrophically tolling illness that induces "gulps" and eyeball-widening in any individual. GIGS is not curable but treatable. It produces paranoia and double-taking alike. It is triggered by perceived missed opportunities and is exacerbated by nostalgia and overthinking. The presence of the words "it" and "this" themselves is enough to make someone want to jump over the fence and plummet right into this "greener grass."
I am uncertain about many things. This never used to be the case. I made one impulsive decision after the other, came crashing down or surpassed expectations, and got right back up. I skinned my knees twice over and ran into a salt bath before giving up. What happened between this time and today I do not know. Nowadays, I look at every. Single. Freakin'. Option. I choose one thing and want to make absolutely sure I will not be missing out on something else. I want to live everyone's lives and all of them. I must become the Princess of Yugoslavia and follow the destiny of a small, crafty, humpbacked village woman before I can move on. Prom dresses and cheap bracelets alike give me problems. What happened to picking the wrong bracelet, snapping it into twelve dangerous pieces, and happily "pfft-ing" it off as dust rolls frictionlessly off my shoulder?
Regret is also a common symptom of this syndrome. It cancels out gratification and turns my fractions into ones with a denominator of zero. As I slide down the side of a cliff, I realize how I will never reach the top. I won't even hike my foot up to the next rock. If we're being honest, I'm terrified of heights and wouldn't even try-not the point. Climbing the cliff halfway and sliding down might as well count as zilch. If you change cliffs every 5 minutes, you have done nothing except build up the swelling blisters on your poor hands. Those poor, poor hands. Damage is done yet no progress is made.
And so...the solution. Parents are afraid of impulsivity (probably a made up word) and strongly advise against this treasonous act. In this case, I'm a country and apparently I just assassinated my ruler. Weird. Doesn't matter. Whether it is the wrong decision, I need to make moves. I need to damn hoist my foot up until my leg snaps off and I'm hanging by my mutilated core to the top of that cliff (yum). In with the blind perseverance, still out with the wishy washy nonsense that hurts people and causes frustrated unibrow wrinkling. Go for the gold and polish your silver. If I make one more metaphor I might actually smack myself.
Out.
I am uncertain about many things. This never used to be the case. I made one impulsive decision after the other, came crashing down or surpassed expectations, and got right back up. I skinned my knees twice over and ran into a salt bath before giving up. What happened between this time and today I do not know. Nowadays, I look at every. Single. Freakin'. Option. I choose one thing and want to make absolutely sure I will not be missing out on something else. I want to live everyone's lives and all of them. I must become the Princess of Yugoslavia and follow the destiny of a small, crafty, humpbacked village woman before I can move on. Prom dresses and cheap bracelets alike give me problems. What happened to picking the wrong bracelet, snapping it into twelve dangerous pieces, and happily "pfft-ing" it off as dust rolls frictionlessly off my shoulder?
Regret is also a common symptom of this syndrome. It cancels out gratification and turns my fractions into ones with a denominator of zero. As I slide down the side of a cliff, I realize how I will never reach the top. I won't even hike my foot up to the next rock. If we're being honest, I'm terrified of heights and wouldn't even try-not the point. Climbing the cliff halfway and sliding down might as well count as zilch. If you change cliffs every 5 minutes, you have done nothing except build up the swelling blisters on your poor hands. Those poor, poor hands. Damage is done yet no progress is made.
And so...the solution. Parents are afraid of impulsivity (probably a made up word) and strongly advise against this treasonous act. In this case, I'm a country and apparently I just assassinated my ruler. Weird. Doesn't matter. Whether it is the wrong decision, I need to make moves. I need to damn hoist my foot up until my leg snaps off and I'm hanging by my mutilated core to the top of that cliff (yum). In with the blind perseverance, still out with the wishy washy nonsense that hurts people and causes frustrated unibrow wrinkling. Go for the gold and polish your silver. If I make one more metaphor I might actually smack myself.
Out.
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