I’m not good at impulse decisions. The few times I took a decision in a hurry I have always ended in disaster. For instance, there was the occasion I broke at least 5 bones in my lower body. Or the one that landed me into the trackless jungles in the outskirts of Caucagua.
These were life-learning experiences, however. The first one taught me to think something over a dozen times; the second one mellowed me, slowly eroding away the angry man I was during my youth. In some sort of fashion, I’ve become a rock.
That doesn’t mean I won’t move at all. In the case when that happens, I’d be like the airplane pilot who goes through his pre-flight checklist, checking it twice (seeing who’s naughty or niiiiice! 😛 ). If even just a little nut and bolt thingy doesn’t check up properly, well, this particular plane ain’t taking off, dudes…
Though that does make me seemingly ill-fit to survive in the chaotic mess that’s Venezuelan society nowadays, it’s exactly that which has helped me to make it this far without getting killed or mutilated in the process. For starters, I’m a homeowner.. which was achieved by careful planning by the time I turned 31. That, my friends, is something worth of notice in a country where you see at least four generations of a family living in promiscuous conditions in a two-room shanty as a general rule.
To succeed in the most minimal task in Venezuela, you can’t go out to the street, let’s say, to pay to water utility bill, without at least a plan B. Oh, Heck! Even Plan B will not suffice: considering the chaotic nature of this place you better have a Plan C, D, E and F… and most probably the whole f***ing alphabet thrown in for good measure.
In Venezuela, you either think everything out to the last detail… or die.
Of course, all this thinking-things-over comes with the expense of not finding a proper mate among the locals; the girls down here consider my constant thinking boring and shun me at any cost. Well, too bad; I’m the sort of nice guy who’d rather stay at home doing the dishes and changing diapers than go for a night out in town. Sounds square? Sigh. These days, when you go to a nightclub in Caracas, you better bring your own body bag, which proves I’m onto something here. And ironically, most of the girls I’ve dated in the past now complain bitterly that the guys they chose in the end won’t wash a dish to save their own lives. LoL. (Why did I ever let you go, Ed? Ahhh, you were borrrrring, that’s why, they say.) Double LoL, indeed
So guys, leave me be with all my slow decisions and my twenty-five plans from B through Z. I’ll eventually get where I want, albeit at a little slower pace. What’s the rush?