Bent Words

Bent Words

January 20, 2017

Well for fuck's sake.

I wrote three pages worth of shite reciting the ways in which I was pissed off about the apartment fire but, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was unable to save said verbiage.

It was six years to the day. On that day six years ago, I intended to go to the bar to watch the Packers in the playoffs. I was about to embark upon the same journey six years later to the day, with the Pack, once again, in the playoffs and so I had a lot on my mind.

The anger. The frustration. The Whiskey Tango Foxtrot of it all. I let it pour. Only to accidentally hit the back button on my laptop since I no longer own a desktop PC since I cannot justify the purchase and because my fingers were numb with frostbite from smoking and drinking in my garage instead of in my living room as previous decades sans children would permit.

One fucking click and it's all gone. Just like the fire. Up in smoke and shadows and memories tinged with fault.


Could I do it again? Yep. Do I have the time? Nope.

Live up the single life, people. You don't know how long you have a right to all the things that make you YOU.

There will be time for sharing your space, renting out your valuable time, making a family but you only have so much time for you. And you alone. Now, the sentences don't get lingered over and perused -- they get babbled out and broken up into tiny bits of misspelled, mangled ideas that don't get a second glance or a revision. Hurry up and write. Hurry up and regurgitate all you wanted to say had you all the time in the world to say it.

Time is not on my side. Eloquence is not my friend. Tidiness and drunken recollections carry over like a bad cold, waiting to punish you for not taking an extra dose of Vitamin C.



But the point -- the entire POINT of my diatribe was this...

I miss ME more than I miss the space I occupied, the things I had acquired, the delicate rings passed down, the books I collected, the wardrobe that fit like a fucking glove.

I miss the time I had, the friends I made, the memories of it all captured in words and photographs somewhere in a box on the top of shelf of what used to be MY domain. And mine only.

I miss me.

Without apologies, without regret, without recourse, without... an ounce of quiet.

I miss me. Typing away at my window on the top floor, looking down on the world as it comically passed me by. I miss coming and going as I please or displeased.

I miss the blank screen, waiting for me still at 2am or half past cocktail hour times four. I miss you and I miss him and I miss reading in bed before I fell asleep. I miss the drama happening outside but how I could turn off the drama inside if I needed to or turn it up if I needed to to finish a good story.

I miss the contemplation and the energy.

I took care of me and my stuff. And now, with so many to responsible for, I inevitably miss something. Perhaps the laundry or the note excusing my child or the pajamas she was supposed to wear for school spirit week. I forget things. I'm not perfect anymore because there is always someone to call me out when I'm not.

Now the house cannot stay clean. The bar isn't always open. The time I took to write poetry or sing songs or make videos... It's gone. With the building you took my time. My me. You took and shook her to death until she wasn't the same inside. And, for that, I'm not happy.

It should have been on my terms. My Time.

I love you for what you've given me and I wouldn't trade it for a thing. But I hate how you took me there, so violently and so entirely when I wasn't even ready.

As though I ever would be.

I watch stupid shit like The Bachelor and listen to women cry TEARS for not finding a match in three fucking days and I wonder... What the hell did you think? Life was going to hand you this MAN that you somehow NEED?! Really? You don't need a man... You want a partner. You want a house with kids and a dog and a yard with good neighbors on the other side. You want to somehow make things good because this is what is expected at some point, right? To extend the hand of the lineage of your upbringing...

You want to be complete.

Well you already are, silly.

You are completely you and completely fine.

Only time will tell how you and if you get to be where you want to go. ANd even if you do get where you want to go, life might snatch it all away in one tragic event. One car accident, one fire, one terminal disease, one hand dealt in one second in one day in one breath. It's all it is -- you get what you get. You can be mad but you can't go back. So stop trying so hard to be what you think you should be and just be who you are with all the passion you contain.

Be it, taste it, feel it and please spread its beauty onto those you do or do not know.

Plan for the best but accept the worst. If life should be so cruel as to take from you what you divine.

I like to look back because what I was was wonderful. I miss that kind of wonderful because I know it's not the same kind of wonderful I will see again. I got to share in some beautiful me time and so it's time now for me to make someone else happy and make life beautiful for those that truly deserve it, just like I did back in the day.

Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party.

You betcha, buddy.

I miss old me. But I got to be her for a long fucking time.

And now, my itty bitty pretty ones, it's your turn.

Don't fret too much about the future as long as you're prepared. Be you with all the beauty and belonging that that holds. Be YOU and be fucking proud. It's all yours to have until it isn't. Be selfish until you find the person you're going to be unselfish with and then, don't let your silly pride get in the way. You'll miss something in the middle -- the part where people are good and giving and willing. You might need them someday so don't be a dick. Be brilliant and, unlike me, don't be afraid. There's nothing to be scared of or to regret unless you haven't tried.

You'll find one day that you're not perfect. But that's okay. It's okay to try really hard and not be everything. As long as you tried and as long as you still love.

No bitterness allowed.

Peace, my babies. Peace.

Written at 5:31 p.m.