It was an interesting weekend: I went cataplectic with revulsion and murderous anger for the first time in my life on Saturday. Then, as I lay on the floor digging my nails into the carpet backing, I had the now-familiar sliting of the sky, and I saw myself in the object of my hatred, and I collapsed, panting. And I hugged Beth to reassure her, and rolled onto my back so I could better glare at God and mutter 'you could've at least fucking warned me.'
So, by all means, let me be the first to say it. Wisdom isn't fun, it isn't painless; it deprives you of all your reactions beyond a gentle abiding sadness and even that washes away to nothing in time. You can let yourself feel good about being wise, but the whole time you know you're just fooling yourself.
On Sunday I bought new Docs, and the refrigerator magnet of which we've already spoken.