Even if you wanted to. And why would you want to? I hate being me. I feel like the Marvel comic 'superhero', Morbius, who gets infected with vampirism, and spends the rest of his life fighting his urges, yet using his abilities for...whatever. I suppose it is 'good', except for his victims who get their jaws turned into flesh-bags full of splintered bone from one punch.
My youngest Marine called me from a van full of Marines this evening, from the range, where he had qualified expert. Again. I congratulated him, of course, and he mentioned that as he was clearing his weapon, a round he didn't need exposed itself, so he tactically reloaded, and slam fired it through the center of the 200 yard target as they were lowering it. His mates were highly impressed.
I told him 'say thank you' and he knew right away what I meant, and thanked me. My training. My genes. And they live on. I am rightly proud of all of my children. They, like all of you, have strengths and weaknesses. But they have something more. Something... enhanced.
The wife calls it 'The Spook Factor'. We both do. It seems appropriate.
Johnny is 'different', and off of any scale I can quantify. His handicaps both limit, and enhance him, and I cannot tell where this road leads.
Nat, on the other hand, is my 7 year old doppleganger. She is as fast as lightning, watches your hands, and trusts no one. I introduced her to the 'punching contest' tonight. You know, the one where you bet the other person you can punch softer than they can?
A butterfly lit on my arm. She was skeptical, but Sour Skittles were on the line, so she took her most gentle shot, and then it was my turn. I whomped her upper arm a good one, and said 'I guess you won!', and the admission fee for smacking a 7 year old is apparently five Sour Skittles.
Life lesson learned?: Priceless.
I almost pulled it on her a bit ago. She was vulnerable, and in mourning. Froggy had been found dead in the tank by the wife, along with one of our little Corrie Catfish. I saw the awareness click in her eyes when I offered my bargain, and she backed slowly away from me, wagging her finger, making the suspicious Woolly Monkey face.
I have no idea why I tell you people this stuff. I have neither the desire, nor need for accolades, and insults directed at me make me laugh, and diminish you, and are even more funny, because you really, really have no idea.
The wife is probably the only human alive that has truly looked into my abyss, though I have given you strangers glimpses, likely to your detriment. Sorry.
She stays, and I have no idea why. I would run from me, if I could. This is no way to live. But she tames me, cools my rage, knows how to make me 'settle', like training an attack dog, and her goodness permeates everything around her.
This may be the weirdest love letter ever written.
You really don't want to imagine me without her...