Bent Words

Bent Words

January 25, 2008

I have this theory that I already lived once Ė was born, hid behind a fort of cereal boxes at breakfast with my brother, made my bed, fell off my bike, went to school, got a job, didnít make my bed, learned to ride, committed some sort of unfathomable and unforgivable deed Ė and then BAM! death by boredom and now here I am, in Hell.

An altogether, falsely advertised, entirely too cold version of Hell.

All the other explanations Iíve come up with have sunk deep into the depths of an ice fishing hole somewhere in northern Wisconsin.

Thatís gotta be it.

Because it cannot just be that Iím unlucky, enduring the relentless cowardice of men who cannot find the drive to simply move their little mouths to speech when it actually does not have to do entirely with them and tell me what the F is going on. It cannot just be that Iíve been this aloof all these years in choosing that guy who, oopsie!, Ďlost his phone,í Ďforgot all about the time,í or Ďjust got too busy with other things.í

It cannot just be that Iíve done this before, again and again, wearing out circles in the ground as deep as I am tall. It cannot just be that Iíve been rowing this stupid boat for years and have yet to find any land to assure my ready feet Ė no, this is obviously the Ground Hogís Day version of Hell.

Hell must be it. For Iíd rather not be so condescending as to blame any of you.

I wouldnít dare point a finger at the disregard, the tail between the legs, the absence of compassion. I wouldnít be caught DEAD (!) accusing you of straddling the fence or finding a new Ďfriendí who, oopsie!, slipped your busy little mind. I wouldnít want you to have to bear the burden of disclosure for God only knows how impossible it can be to be candid.

So this must be Hell and the very reason for your striking silence.

Thatís how it goes, here in Hell Ė the imagination runs wild when one isnít being told what IS going on with a small declaration, an act of generosity, a pinch of courtesy, a kind word, a simple heads up, a brief acknowledgment, a moment of your time (if you please). Even if it comes as the absolute dagger of truth Ė itís better than standing utterly alone in the dark.

Itís better than watching you little devils, one after the other, march on by with your chests and your pitch forks held high in the air, your eyes of fire burning a new path, your curious laughter antagonizing the life out from under my feet. You march on and on without so much as a glance, a word or a nod. You and only you know the future, only you have the answers, only you are privy to all that IS.

How can you keep doing it? How can you hold so tightly to the rope while someone is drowning in ignorance? How can you not see the tables turned and just walk away without a hint of reality? How can you be so unfeeling? How is it that you canít say it? Theyíre easy words! Not even two syllables! The presence of a dictionary is not required! If you got through the third grade, you can get through this! How is it that you canít Fíing handle it?

Done. Dead. Oops. Over. The. End.

Seriously? Is it that hard? Are you twelve Ė thinking that if you just ignore it, it will go away? You're witty with the initial "must impress girl" mode turned on but the moment a mole hill crosses your path, you're about as worthless a dollar in France.

But donít worry, I know what's going on and itís obviously not you. Itís just that Iíve died and gone to The Land of Complacency, a City of Silence, a World of I Wonder Whatís Going On Ė where sofa warning labels bear better disclosures and men without balls roam wild and thoughtless and free.

Welcome to Hell and enjoy your stayÖ

Written at 9:24 p.m.