Odds

there i am, going north on central park, rapid eye movement and cursive keeping me company as i try not to breathe out of my mouth and as i try to make my gait fall in accordance not with nightswimming (because you can't run to that. to that, you can only grow and come-of-age, and i did that yesterday), but to orange crush. from the asphalt to the blacktop to the sidewalk, i see it. right before i end the world, i see it. under the white aid of the streetlight (not an orange glow. some are white, some yellow, some orange, and the differential makes all the difference), i ran right over the beetle.

i murdered something, probably leaving some infants father-less, but i kept on running. the lyrical ballad of the big bang no longer keeping me occupied, i couldn't help but wonder: what are the odds that that happened? what are the odds that at 8:42 p.m. [CST] i, kendall, set out for my nightly jog, and 1.7 miles into it, stepped on a beetle (who could have also been taking his nightly round?). what if i had left my dorm one second sooner? or later? or if he had paused for just a moment? what's more: my right foot did the dirty work. what are the odds that he lucked out, avoiding the wrath of my left, which was undoubtedly a closer threat?

what are the odds?
i want numbers. i want them, on my paper, here, now.
i wouldn't mind having numerophobia in addition to oneirophobia; what's the difference?
that didn't make sense,
and what are the odds? (very likely? oh, how funny.)

holding hands in the dark, from promises to regrets, and back again. panting, mistakes, sweaty successes, i'm a fucking wreck. what are the odds?

[edited for sanity's sake, not that sanity ever did anything for me.]