There’s a man inside my head with only half a face. He sits alone in a padded, locked room as I watch with with unannounced tears from the ceiling. My mother thinks of him from many miles and lifetimes away. Hers is one very different from that of her brothers’. This anger may be all the tension formed while fighting thoughts of meaninglessness. He grasps onto the accelerator of his motorcycle with enough intensity to strip it of it’s casing. He rides with no expression. Only a distant yet vast hope that will drive him to continue these unsatisfactory practices until he’s no longer able.
I would only hope he sees his true fate and partially relinquishes that hope. Only in this will he be able to make peace with his family. Obnoxious of a choice as they were…loving and wonderful nonetheless. He hasn’t thought about the end yet. He actually has, but this is resent and denial. This is seclusion. He can never admit to himself yet, it’s too soon. It’s can’t be. We can only hope there is a day or two at the least where he can calm enough to say goodbyes and remind his family that he cares.
Unfortunately right now, no one understands. Everyone just wants the old Bob back. This expectation is their way of being there for him, but the last thing he wants is to need people to be there and remind him that’s he’s different. Although he does need them, despite his outbursts and rage and disobedience to the rules of his usual life. Part of him figures that if people are still there for him, even through this, he still has purpose. But he won’t know until testing it to the limits of tolerance and love from his family.
He needs someone strong to push through all his intentional controversy and force him to remember that he is loved…loved with full acceptance of his pain and anguish. He’s rebelling. Against himself, against his family, the cancer, the doctors, his job, his life and happiness in general…anything. But this rebellion cries for submission from it’s focus. A submission that will never be enough, never realized…but needs to be there with unwavering strength regardless. It’s the only wire left in the cable. If it snaps, all integrity is lost. We are still there for you. We still care and always will. We love you, you are family. And family is not bound by the limits of life. It is forever. Lasting ash, afterlife, or absence of.
The over-eagerly concerned scurvy worrier brings out a basket of like forty oranges only like fourteen minutes out to sea to a crew of only eight. Gary kicks the basket out of his hands, again. You’re getting to be a real dick, Gary.
This plumber is taking forever to get here. You know, if I was a witch, I bet I could just boil the plumbing section from the Yellow-Pages, make a stew of it, add some eye-of-newt and be laughin’. Then POOF I’d have my very own plumber and he’d always be on time. On call 24/7, because-I-said-so.
But would I ever wonder about how he felt? What about his rights? Is he comfortable enough, in the basement closet, for months on end, in-between plumbing problems? Sure, he can survive without eating, but would he enjoy the opportunity…the physiological sensation of the process itself? Does he dream or have goals? “Get out of the rat-race” and onto something more creatively rewarding? Like woodcrafting or something? Does he need love? Is it possible to create a being, through witchcraft, who is so good at plumbing, yet expect that he doesn’t urge, like we all do, to feel the warm, consenting flesh of a woman’s body and lips against his own? Probably just easier to do a spell that teaches me how to be a plumber.
So where do you think they put the listings for witch-schools in this thing? Is it listed with the other schools? Seems unlikely. Probably hidden somewhere sneaky and witch-like. Maybe if I circle every fifth letter it will spell out the answer for me. God, I fucking hate the Yellow-Pages!
Oh okay, here he is. About time, asshole. Better fix my toilet real good, you sub-human piece of garbage. When I offer him some water, I’ll mention the pop in the fridge, but I’ll tell him it’s “pretty flat.” No way he’ll want any of it then.
I cook with the blood of my victims. I drain them, still alive, like a spider. Only my webs are duct tape (Costco has it on super cheap for a ten-pack until the end of the month). The duct tape also helps to keep the bitching and moaning to a minimum throughout the draining step, which takes a few days. Then I jar some so it will stay fresh for the “slow kill season.” I put it in just about everything.
Thinking about adding some sort of binder so I can make a jam and spread it on my toast in the mornings. I’m getting so sick of this grape jelly I bought when I was stoned. It was great at first, but enough is enough. It’s like the jar is is bottomless or something. Now it’s just this glaring, purple, burden in my fridge. I bet I’ll have it for years. I don’t think it ever goes bad. Who knows what’s in it!!
Oh! Check this out, I’m so stoked. Found out this week that I’m at the top of my class at the culinary school. Cool, right? Still think I’m crazy? I dare you to try my “blood cheesecake” and not audibly shriek with delight. Then tell me who’s crazy? Who’s crazy? Who’s crazy.
Dear Girl with the gap-tooth that was going home to cook vegan ravioli. I’m glad I commented on your pasta cookbook while you were buying wine from me. You seemed surprised that I was vegan too. In fact, you gave me quite the alluring look, and I quite noticed.
But you see, I’m quite shy with sexual tension lately. I’m thirty-two and just spent a few months living at my Mom’s house after I got back from traveling and needed to find a job. It was quite taxing on my ego. Very taxing. Just four days ago I moved into my own place again and only today realized that I could feel comfortable and confident dating. But my courage and pride are still a bit bruised which is causing me to be more cowardly in the face of beauty, adorning me with flourishing, wonderful, soul-warming sexual validation. You did this to me all in a look. I can’t imagine what a dinner would do to me.
So I just needed to tell you that I’m sorry for not inviting myself to your vegan ravioli dinner. Your look clearly indicated that you would enjoy my company. It would also have been the most romantic thing ever if we pulled it off right, with the right series of words and looks throughout the evening. Man, I’m really sorry.
Hope you come back in my store to buy liquor again. And keep coming back until you find me on shift. I promise I won’t fuck it up next time by being shy or scared of sounding inappropriate while working.
I’ll just ask you out, okay? Then you can continue looking at me like that for as long as you like.