I’ve always been a hopeful cynic. That’s such an oxymoron, isn’t it? You’d think those two wouldn’t necessarily fit together, that they would somehow kick each other out of the room or at least have a good old-fashioned brawl beforehand. I could see it now: Hope negotiating while Cynic spits in her face. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Hope wouldn’t necessarily be a spitter; more like a sniffer. You think you know it all. Cynic, on the other hand, would probably be a crier. Not a bawler necessarily, more like a snuffler, one who tries and fails to hide it.
So you see, contradictions. Not what you expect of them, but in a way that’s what we all come to expect. Cynic wins out a large percentage of the time, but not in every instance. Sometimes Hope takes the lead. Rare but delightful, Hope. That hand between the shoulder blades, the push when you need it most. Cynic is a joyous kick in the nuts. It doesn’t just sting, it fucking slays.
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