'Cause the Glass Half Full Makes Me Nervous

I don't like it when life's road is a gingery glide along a tranquil stream or some such shit. Well, it's not that I'm all anti-harmonious made-for-television moments or anything like that. If they were just that, a moment to come and go, then I'd probably skip along side the chipping larks and fluttering butterflies.
But, as it is, I know that when life's road is smooth, it isn't just a moment. It's anything but that. Rather, it's the preface for a stormy Hindenburg collision. You show me a cheerful man whose day is pacing along in perfection and I'll show you a dude who is going to stub his toe while tripping over his dog's puke. Or I'll show you a dude who is going to inadvertently crash his new beloved sports car into a vehicle his wife is traveling in, unbeknownst to him, with her younger, hotter lover.
Now, before you start lecturing me about the sunshiny glass half full philosophy that you live your super corny life by, I want you to know that I love my pessimism. I adore it. And do you know why, Mr. Chipper Pants? Because my pessimism has never failed me.
While all those plastic-smiled optimists are bummed out on the sidewalk because their favorite Idol was booted out on his ass by the ruthless Simon or because a mud puddle somehow found its way into their fresh, clean path, I take life's numerous disappointments and failures in stride because, well, I knew that this shit was most likely going to implode into nightmare. And then, every great now and again when life does throw me a unsuspected curve ball and things work out as though it is happening in some euphoric Hollywood script, I get to be surprise. And, really, who doesn't love surprises? I mean, there are a few no one loves, like when your ex-girlfriend surprises you with the knowledge that her special lady time is a few weeks late, but aside from that, surprises make us feel like cotton candy is in the soul.
Let me break it down for my "special" readers: Optimism = tons of disappoint, Pessimism = occasional surprises!
Now, I'm not detailing my well-established beliefs is suckism to further convince you of my fun hater status, though my guess is that it is. Oh, just so you know, suckism is a word I totally just made up to describe the doctrine that this (fill in the blank) sucks.
Let me get back on track. The reason I am writing all this is because in the rare and random incident that life just somehow cooperates to my will, I get nervous. And I mean real nervous, like that knotted up stomach I get each time Dick Cheney snarls at me on the television.
If, out of the clear blue, life magically falls into place, I start looking for the poop in the corner. So, after I laid Rolan down for his nap, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I walked into my bedroom to find a peacefully napping Ridge.
I didn't tell him to lay down. I didn't scold him for three hours, repeating in an endless loop, "Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down. Ridge, lay down. Damn it, Ridge, lay down."
I didn't bribe him with 4,000 empty sugar calories. I didn't even have to turn on some terrible Western. He just took it upon himself to swaddle himself in my covers and rest.
So, because of his divine miracle transpiring from no effort on my part, I know something real shitty is going to happen this afternoon. One of the kids will get sick. No, wait, both of the kids will get sick. After they puke in unison, they will slug it out. Then their favorite toys will disappear. Or George Bush will come on television and, after he gives the super-educated Washington press corp definitions to words already know, he'll announce that he's liked "presidentin'" so much that he's decided he's just gonna keep doing it next year.