Sometimes I have to stop and ask myself questions like “How likely is it that there is actually an invisible serial killer/the monster from ‘Killed by Death’ in Buffy hiding behind the bathtub curtain in the downstairs bathroom? Why am I checking it if there’s a very low probability of that?” It’s ridiculous. I don’t think they’re hiding in any other bathrooms in the house.
And I talk to myself, narrating my life, justifying myself to myself. Really, it’s rather ridiculous. I’m alone and I’m not judging. Maybe it’s to compensate for my fury at making mistakes and wishing I could either go back in time or forget completely. I’m not exactly accepting of the human condition. Whatever that is. Really, there are a variety of aspects to being human.
On a sadder note:
If there were one thing I could go back in time to fix, it would probably be to the day my first cat was put to sleep. He had been there my whole life. He was fifteen. He had been the first to know that my mother was pregnant, sniffing her stomach just after I had been conceived. He had always been there for me. He had stomach cancer. I stayed in the car while we waited at the vet’s office for his body. I should have gone in there and been there for him–as he had for me every time I had needed him. And I forever hate myself for that.
But we all have our regrets, and time travel is impossible. Things move. Things change. We can’t do anything about it.