No, it’s not because mommy and daddy didn’t love you enough or the convoluted fact that the other kids picked on you when you were younger.
No, the reason is a much more selfish one.
Every job you couldn’t hold down, every relationship you’ve let crumble and die, every sweet star-struck girl you’ve ever made cry: it’s all for the same reason.
You see, it’s not that you have it out for yourself, that you secretly want to see yourself fail, ultimately.
You don’t consciously booby-trap your life because of a self-loathing obsession with failure.
You do it all to see just how much shit this pitiful excuse for an existence of yours can really take.
Like a kid playing with fire, you hold a palm over the open flame to see just how much pain you can take before eyes start to shed tears.
But who’s crying? Them or you?
It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It all comes out the same in the wash.
The small cracks interest you not.
You want to know how many times you can drop something before it finally ceases to function, man.
But you don’t really want it to break, in the end, even though that is the goal to which all of this has been building, because, then, the game would be over.
And it has never really been about crossing the line, but simply about seeing just how close to it you can get.