Imagine going on this ride, and you’re just going around and around and around. There’s no stopping. Even while you’re screaming at the top of your lungs to stop, the person in charge can’t hear you. You even think you make eye contact as you’re pleading for the ride to come to an end, yet all he does is look away. You’re left with two choices, you either pretend to enjoy this shit, or you hate yourself for getting on the ride and become sick of the fucking spins.

That’s what this has become, my life, I mean. My life has been a theme park, and I’ve gotten on the same damn rides expecting a different result each time. I’m too scared to get on the big ones because, at this point, I’m in too deep. I’ve been playing it small, I’ve been sticking around what I know, and I’m just now starting to realize this.

Sticking around for what I already know is simple. It doesn’t require all that much work. There are times I could even make something so simple look so challenging. Why would I do that, you ask? It seems so obvious; if I trick myself, everyone else will believe it in the crowd. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to have a nice little ego boost.

But no.

I’m living small. I shouldn’t be. I never wanted this. I’ve always enjoyed the difficult road because all the scratches and bruising were just a story to tell in the end. And isn’t that the goal of all this shit? To have kids and wait for their kids to come over. This way, I get to share my story, and they get to keep asking for more from their favorite grandfather because what good would it be if I just had the same shit to share every single time. And would good would it be to bring home nothing but regrets. Why talk about the love of your life with someone who feels like a stranger at a Buffalo Wild Wings when you can introduce me over that same beer? I can’t let that happen. It’s not going to happen.

I’m the person who’s been ignoring my requests to get off the fucking ride. It’s been enough spins; it’s about time to pack it up and make a move—no more circles.