One thing they instilled, mum and dad, was don’t quit. Like quitting is a bad thing. It can be. And church did this. You try. Trying is what people do. And if you don’t, you’re dead, basically. If you’re not slogging for something, regardless of want, you’re not alive. That’s hindsight fucked.
There are things I’m glad I never quit, though I was truly tempted, like, my teaching degree and Grey’s Anatomy and writing, generally. And there are plenty things I wish I quit sooner like Girl Guides and The Walking Dead and this one unnameable ex who thought I was a name-change away from being a fixer upper. But I’m not and was never.
A sense of duty pins me: doesn’t it everybody? Makes decisions tricky, because what if a little trying is all it’d shoe-shine take? I weigh it all up like I’m un-fault-able electronic scales but, truth is, I’m in the aftermath of an earthquake, and even if my mind is conducive and lucid, I’m surrounded by bricks. I better start picking those up.