apocalyptic optimism

Once, when I was eighteen, my brother called me a cynic because he was frustrated with me, and I punched him in the eye. It's a word that sits under my skin. It usually doesn't bother me but sometimes if you catch me in the right mood . . . . Sometimes I even use it myself, when I can't find a better word. I say it about people I like. "I think she's cynical enough for me," as I told a friend earlier. It's not the word I want. I'm just not sure what it is.

I think it's that I could never really appreciate someone who didn't appreciate life for what it is. People are ridiculous and the world is going to hell. That's exciting. That's funny. You might as well laugh. Right?

Once, when I was twenty, my girlfriend thought I was joking when I told her that I wasn't a cynic, and I got angry and drove home. Just two days before, I'd told her how much I loved her cynicism.

It has nothing to do with cynicism or pessimism. But we've been disappointed. We've been jerked around by fate more than once. It doesn't always work out like we'd hoped and we know that. We've come to expect it. There's disasters and disappointments waiting all the time. People will be petty and burn you constantly. We know. We understand.

It's the ability to smile and accept it and to laugh anyway. No optimist can do that. No cynic, no pessimist can do that. I've seen everything that can go wrong. This has never stopped me from saying "fuck yes."