Another close call, another lucky break. I have the odd feeling that I am not sitting here writing and fretting, but am in fact draped crushed and broken over the mangled carcass of Purple Danger. An Occurrence at Leeson Park Corner, if you like. I don't have the super powers but am still happy to keep living this dream of typing and lunch-making right until the moment that the truth of my timely demise is revealed.
Or maybe I just got lucky. Again. I could have been going faster. Purple's brakes could have been even crappier and less responsive than they actually are. He could have pulled out that little bit later. Lucky, lucky, and thrice lucky, that's me.
But it has to run out, right? Or run free at least, untethered from my safety and emotional well-being. It has to happen. Law of fucking averages, innit?
And so, I suspect, a terrible doom awaits. An archaic terrible doom. You know what I mean by that, right? I don't have to explain this shit. You're not stupid. Nor ignorant. I should avoid projecting my own stupidity and ignorance onto other people. It pisses them off something rotten.
But what do I fucking care? Here, ignoramuses, is what I mean: Terrible, in the 'formidably great' sense. Doom, in the 'fate, not necessarily negative' sense. A terrible doom awaits, I say again. All these near misses, these bust-ups with the animate and inanimate, they're leading down the road to something big, and when it comes I just hope that I'll be fourth, fifth, sixth time lucky.
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