Winning 1-0 and already drafting the obituary.
It's 1-0. Your team is winning. And you've already explained, to a room that didn't ask, the four distinct ways this falls apart. 'We always concede after sixty.' 'This is exactly how it happened last time.' The Eye recognizes the technology immediately: pessimism as a prepayment plan. If you predict the disaster out loud, it can't ambush you — and if it arrives, you get to be right, which is the consolation prize you've learned to live on. You run the same broadcast before job interviews ('they probably filled it internally'), before dates ('it's going to be weird'), before anything good gets close enough to touch. Hope, in your system, is exposure. Doom is hedging. The catch the Eye keeps replaying: you've prepaid for hundreds of disasters that never arrived, and there's no refund desk. Meanwhile the joy you insured against — the actual lead, the actual win, the actual person liking you back — got billed at full price anyway. You just weren't watching when it cleared.
Get your read — free on iPhoneyou predict the disaster so it can't ambush you. it never works, and you never stop.