"I have a date with destiny," some may declare. That old-fashioned cliche that gets thrown around from time to time.
"'Destiny,' you say?"
"Yes, destiny."
Tricky, isn't it? This whole 'destiny' business. Your life unfurling right in front of you, in spite of your being completely blind to it. Even if you could witness the pathetic spectacle, you'd have little to no control of the show, let alone its ultimate outcome. A Magic 8 Ball is a reliable enough source of guidance for me, I reckon. Say, I wonder what would happen if I based every decision I ever made by solely using one? From the shade of lipstick to wear that day, to which boy to pursue or where to invest my money. Could be quite an interesting experiment!
Hmmm... I'll contemplate that.
As for my own internal intuition, I fear it's gone on the fritz. I see nothing but a blank, white canvas in front of me, and my palette is even more stark and desolate than an albino ghost. There is something to be said for having a vast sea of nothingness in front of one's self, though. There is a certain comfort in the pale shimmer of infinite expanse. The dull, muted sparkle of this future of mine gone Supernova. Not so much a "Black Hole," but rather a "Bottomless, Colorless Pit." There are no devils in bold, crimson attire, nor angels with soft feathery wings resting upon each of my shoulders, whispering directions in my ears. No. Only I.
In fact, let's discuss this garb of my own for a moment... this trickery of swirls and colors and ink is nothing but a ruse. Underneath all of this distraction lies a woman as pale as a full moon in the night sky. Nearly transparently alabaster, one might observe, had I not piled all of this nonsense in the way to disguise it. The epidermal hullabaloo and the holograms and hallucinations. They provide no shelter, though, and in fact invoke quite the opposite. People see these roadblocks and detours as merely an open invitation. They ignore the warnings and the red flags and still come barreling towards me at breakneck speed, busting through the barrier of my proverbial caution tape with complete disregard, like a drunken pock-faced boy performing a ritual date rape on prom night. It's infuriating. In. Fur. I. A. Ting.
I've said it once already today, and I'll say it again:
"Sometimes I just wish everyone would go ahead and fuck off."
With all of this riff-raff around me cluttering up my space, it's no wonder I can't find my way in this world...
