I’m Happy I Can’t Read Minds.

I’d be lying if I told you I never wished for superpowers. A few times, I probably thought reading minds would be an awesome power to help me be unstoppable. Think about it, always being one step ahead and never being outsmarted? That’d be such a great move.

Now?

Hell to the nah. Reading minds would be the last thing I would want to do. I’ve heard my voice in recordings; I know how much of a sarcastic ass I could be; I’m familiar with how I sound like an 80-year-old man when giving advice.

I would probably hate myself too.

I would probably make my own eyes roll.

I would probably understand how my truth even sounds like bullshit.

I don’t want to know all the shit I cause.

I don’t want to know someone’s true intentions.

I want to believe all the lies.

I’m a special kind of human, and special, not necessarily in a good way. Special in a manner of being a fucking dick now and then. I have these crazy high expectations for myself and understand that I can’t hold everyone accountable for these expectations.

The “not knowing” drives me nuts, but it’s what likely keeps me sane.

Maybe I want to be lied to.