rain of consciousness or stream of terror?

Here’s why I hate the rain. Because, because, because, because, becauuuuuse … because of all the horrible things it does. Forgive me for that start, I’m not sure why I would start off with a Wizard of Oz reference, the story has absolutely nothing to do with witches, lions or yellow brick roads and personally I find that particular verse of that horribly annoying song particularly horribly annoying. If it weren’t for the fact I needed to get something off my chest I would just stop right here and call the whole story a bad job and be done with it. But because, because, because, because, becauuuuuse … I want to get something off my chest on I shall go but I will promise not to type the word because anymore. Well, I promise to try to avoid typing it. If I promise not to type it then my subconscious will have it popping up every two sentences. Of course, I could just replace it with the phrase ‘for the reason that’ but you have to agree that it doesn’t have quite the panache of … well, you know the word I’m thinking of. Probably explains why the writers of the song went with it over “for the reason that, for the reason that, for the reason that, for the reason that, for the reason thaaaaaaaaaat”.

Ok, enough of thaaat. Here’s why I hate the rain: it makes me stare at my windshield wipers. I can’t help it. Typically I have no problem seeing through the rain as I drive and it doesn’t even cause me to stop reading whatever eBook I’m engrossed in on my Kindle or stop me from texting a lengthy reply to whomever I’m texting as I drive but as soon as the wipers start in I’m distracted and let me tell you why. Brace yourself, it’s about to get all economics up in here.

There is a finite amount of times that wipers can make their journey across the windshield and back before they wear out, correct? So it follows that if they wipers cost a certain amount then with every pass they are that much closer to being in need of replacement. I am literally watching my investment depreciate right before my eyes. Back and forth, back and forth, each time my total net worth continues to sink. That’s bad enough, right? The real issue I have is with my inability to ignore this reality. No matter how hard I try, I sit there fuming about every drop of rain that falls onto my windshield and is need of being wiped away. Can you see where I’m headed with this?

It’s called opportunity cost. All of the various brilliant and wonderful things I could be doing and thoughts I could be having if I wasn’t sitting there with my hands clenching the steering wheel with a white-hot rage as Mother Nature continues her assault on my checkbook.

“Fucking stop raining” I bellow impotently at the dark clouds above, as my retirement fund continues to hemorrhage. It’s this bellowing no doubt that stops me from making an amusing metaphor out of the rain, my money and the word liquidity.

But that’s not why I really hate the rain. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the rain for the whole windshield wipers thing but that always leads to why I really hate the rain. I’m not sure the italics on “really” are really communicating what I’m trying to say here. I do hate the windshield wiper thing. Left to itself there would be enough there to hate the rain and any psychologist would nod in agreement that there is something terribly wrong with me. But what follows makes me hate the rain even more. Perhaps that’s how I should have phrased it. By using the italics you might have been led to believe that I didn’t really hate the rain until the second thing when in fact what I meant was that I hated the windshield wiper thing and then on top of that hate there was something I hated even more. Either way I got to use italics so it’s all good.

Except, you might point out if you’re still reading this, I haven’t delivered the thing that really makes me hate the rain. My apologies, I will get to it this instant.

As I rage skyward, invariably I will glare and catch my reflection. It reminds me why after somebody screws you over you can never actually be friends with them again and if you try it’s just wasted effort. It’s not that you can’t forgive them; it’s quite possible that you can. It’s the fact that from that moment on they will be reminded of what a dirtbag they were and, by extrapolation, the dirtbag that they could still be in any given situation. Who wants to hang out with someone that reminds them of the dickhole that lurks within them? The relationship is doomed no matter how sincere both parties are. Just walk away.

But I can’t walk away from the face I see reflected in the windshield.

Shit, at this point I might as well try to tie this up with a reference to ignoring the man behind the curtain right?

Why not?

Because.