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 with the 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? It’s a process, a daily battle of oxymorons and contrarian thinking that befuddle every Rorshach test I’ve taken.

My therapist and parole officer have agreed 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.