It’s been said that the definition of genius is the ability to hold two opposing thoughts simultaneously while retaining the capacity to function. These are the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald in a collection of essays aptly titled “The Crack-Up.”

The essays reflect themes of disillusionment, the decline of the American Dream, and the exhaustion of a life lived at the center of the Jazz Age.

I’m feeling exhausted for the same reasons. But not so exhausted that I can’t look for my own genius in the oxymoronic idea of being intentional without expectations. I haven’t found it yet, probably never will, hope I don’t and even if I do it’s not likely I’m smart enough to recognize it.

I’m punching above my weight and pay grade, and my filter has more holes than Blackburn, Lancashire. But, who’s counting? Being intentionally unexpectant is a daily battle of contrarian thinking that befuddles me to the point of insomnia.

My therapist and parole officer have agreed that thoughts like this are proof I have too much free time. Their advice is simple: keep my pie-hole shut and stay away from any public space or gathering where alcohol and/or gummies are available.