Imprecise

I’ve always been annoyed by imprecise people. Have I ever told you that? Pfft. I don’t understand why some people can’t seem to follow directions or show up somewhere when they say they will. I have no patience for exaggeration and hyperbole. Say what you mean and mean what you say. That’s my way.

Being imprecise is the worst thing. Mean people can become nice. Dumb people can get educated. Imprecise people can fake it for a while, but they’ll always get distracted and be off again.

My brother was like that. Pfft. He died. First definitive thing he ever did. Maybe he cursed me.

You see, I’m becoming imprecise. Me!

No, not me exactly. My brain.

It’s a horrible betrayal. My brain is well aware how much I dislike imprecise people. My brain is what has always reminded me of that fact. Still, as if to spite me, my brain has allowed itself to succumb to the fragility of old age and become imprecise. Pfft.

I forget things I need to do. I forget things I’ve already done. I lose things. I lose focus. I misspeak. I misstep.

Steady has become wobbly. Pfft.

I am becoming what I always hated in other people. There is a word for that isn’t there? Irony? Karma? Catastrophe?

What was I saying? I can’t remember what I was saying. It’s a bad trait to not even be able to keep track of one’s own train of thought. Derailed. Deranged. Pfft.

I’ve always been annoyed by imprecise people. Have I ever told you that?

old eye

This is part of Fiction Friday. All this year I’ve been publishing flash fiction and other creative writing every Friday. Find the past posts here.

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