Throughout my life I've learned that a lot of things aren't really thought out; that they happen on an impulse. Or, at least, that's how I decided to live my life.
Take, for example, my choice as a six-year-old, starry eyed kid that I wanted to be the first man to land on Pluto despite not knowing one thing about what that planet was like.
That, dear readers, would be considered impulsive.
For starters, there is no way to sustain human life there, even if it were only for a few moments.
Secondly, it is no longer a planet, but a dwarf moon or whatever scientific term they are deciding to call it these days.
What else would be considered impulsive is my deciding, after graduating from McKenzie High, that I was going to go cross country and strike it rich in New York City. Town life was too boring.
The same faces. The same families living. Breathing. Dying. It was the same pattern day in and day out. I wanted to be different. I wanted a change.
But that's not even remotely the most impulsive thing I've done.
Nor is going from business to business with the same starry eyed gaze I had as a kid, trying to strike it rich and fulfill my dreams.
Buying a lottery ticket in an attempt to get the winning billion dollar jackpot was.
I can't remember the name of the place I bought my ticket, but once I heard how much you could win, I just had to toss my hat in the ring.
You never knew, right? My impulsion had to strike it rich sometime, right?
And didn't it pay off. I remember looking at the frizzy TV in my less-than-average apartment, flicking my eyes from the screen to the ticket in my sweaty palms before looking back up again.
I had won. I HAD WON! Impulsiveness paid off!
I could hear my father's voice now, looking at me with that appraising look he afforded me so many times growing up.
I could picture my father's office, the place I'd always find myself whenever I did something impulsive that would get me in trouble at school.
"Impulsiveness never got anyone anywhere," he would say. "Impulsiveness has its consequences. They might not be immediate, but they will catch up to you. You need to tread more carefully."
We only lived once, I remember thinking. Why couldn't I be daring? Impulsive? Consequences wouldn't catch up with me if I was carefully impulsive.
And yes, that sort of oxymoron made sense in my head as a kid. And now, as a young adult, I /make/ it make sense.
I signed the back of the winning ticket and everything the night before to insure that no one could steal my soon-to-be-claimed billion.
I hardly slept a wink that night, dreaming of what I'd do with my new found fortune.
Perhaps I'd move back to my small town and rub my wealth in the faces of the people that looked down at me as the troublemaker. As the kid that never learned their lesson.
As the kid that would get no where in life.
Consequences? Pfft. If consequences were like this, I wanted to be impulsive even more. It was like a drug to me. It was my high.
I claimed my ticket to the forced congrats of the many the next day. I took a picture with the typical gigantic check, giving a cheesy grin to the camera as it flashed and momentarily blinded me.
I was rich. And boy, didn't my life begin to change.
I moved out of the run down apartment. I quit the job that I managed to scrap up at packing facility. I moved into an apartment that reflected my new status.
I bought materials to excess that I didn't need. The new Ferrari parked on the curb glistened in the sun every morning when I left my apartment for my early morning drive.
As was usual with every new week, I went to the bank in my Ferrari to withdraw more money. I needed to buy a new gadget of some sort. Maybe the I-Phone X or whatever letter they were on now.
Whatever the newest one was. I could afford it.
Once I arrived, I withdrew what I needed, my back to the door, when a shot rang out in the air. I heard the soft crumble of the ceiling tiles overhead followed by shrill screaming.
"EVERYONE ON THE GROUND NOW!"
I turned slowly to see the masked figure with a gun, swinging it wildly about the place to make people lay on their stomachs on the floor.
I made sure my money was tucked into my breast pocket before I laid down too on the cool tile. The action didn't go unnoticed from the masked figure's friend.
I felt someone pulling me up by the root of my hair, forcing my head around to look at them as the steely cold of a gun barrel was pressed roughly under my jaw.
"Hand the money over."
No. I had earned this fair and square. This was my impulse reward.
This was part of the reward that would prove my father, and others in my life, that they had been wrong telling me to be non-impulsive this whole time.
But I /did/ have a billion, and the fact that this man seemed to have a very itchy trigger finger was alarming to me.
I reached a hand towards my breast pocket to withdraw the small sum of cash when another earth shattering shot rang out. I was expecting more plaster to rain down from above like snow, but no.
I brought my hand out from my breast pocket to see it was stained red.
My chest was having a hard time functioning the way it was suppose to, and I felt this icy cold feeling pass through me; this sense of losing my balance to the effects of gravity.
As if I was that six-year-old child who had finally landed on Pluto.
The ceiling greeted my eyes as the man that had, just seconds ago, had his gun under my jaw cursed under his breath.
"What was /that/ for? We could have used him to get more money!"
"I thought he was going for a gun! I didn't know!"
"That was the most impulsive and stupid thing you've done!"
Impulsive. There was that word I had grown so accustomed to living with my whole life come to haunt me now as I lay there getting colder and more light-headed.
My whole entire life was made up of one impulsive incident after another.
It was only fitting that it ended with one.