It’s in the way you walk.
If you walk with purpose and intent, they’ll never know. They’ll never suspect you. Head up, shoulders back, always looking past people, never at anyone. Never letting your brow or your shirt crease. You can’t sweat. Can’t swallow too much. It’s like poker, you can’t show your tells. Though, at this point, no one in their right mind would ever accept my tells as truth, even if they were delivered to them in a teal box with a black bow.
What I did is unfathomable.
But that is not the point of this narrative. Don’t get lost in the minutia. Don’t believe that the juicy parts are actually in the story, in the what. Whenever you’ve had the pleasure of allowing a ripe cut of steak melt in your mouth, was the memory ever as decadent as the experience?
You’re right, that was a trick question.
But you get the point. And perhaps it’s purely selfish of me to keep my terrible decant secrets to myself, but I never said I wasn’t selfish. If you only live once, it is your duty to be selfish. Why waste your one tango with this fine planet on other people? You were not born to service other souls, in my humble opinion.
Here we are, getting lost in the details.
I’ve always hated details, found them entirely wasteful. Found perfection the lynchpin of uselessness. In fact, perfection is dangerous. Perfection is a tool to control, to keep everyone in line. To keep everyone pure and good. Keep them from doing bad things, things like what I did.
Good thing I don’t follow the rules.
Alas, I would recommend following my rules. Unless you want to get caught, that is. If then, by all means, be fucking perfect. Smile at your neighbors, make time for strangers and never, ever–for the love of God–do what I did.
Now if you’ll excuse me.
I have somewhere important to be.
