Bent Words

Bent Words

May 08, 2021

“When I have children, I’m going to name them Nathan and Morgan,” she said in a cute, shy voice.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I like those names,” she responded.

“No. Why do you want children?”

No answer.

Why do you want children? Why do you want to get married? Why do you want to buy a house? Why do you want to go to church?

“I want a house for the space and so I can have a yard for the dog!”

A house to hold all your things. Things which will need dusting, vacuuming, organizing, washing, sweeping and wiping. You will do these things once and they will be dirty again the next day (or the next hour) so you can do it all over again. And again. And again. And again. And you will ask yourself why are there so many crumbs? Why can’t I have one clean butter knife? Why am I in charge of finding everything that is lost? Why do I have so many pairs of socks but cannot find a single match?!

Kids. What do you want them for? To do the farming? To pass on your legacy? To call you once a month when you’re old and decaying?

I broke up with him before we were even an item because these are the things he wanted and NOT the things I wanted. They are big things. Houses and kids and marriage and religion. You put a lot of work into a house; mowing the yard, fixing all the broken things, upgrading all the crappy things… You’re stuck there. Wherever you are. You feed, bathe, change and keep your kids alive and all they do is hate you, taunt you, roll their eyes, scream in high pitched tones, ask you to find them socks or drive them to the store or buy the grape flavored medicine. They are selfish and thusly, all you do, is care for kids when they could care less for you.

“Look, Mom! We bought you a cookie cake for Mother’s Day!” they squealed.

“I don’t really like cookie cake but thank you for thinking of me,” I replied.

“So can we eat it if you don’t want it?”


“I want to go to church so I can be a better person.”

You should just BE a good person and not worry about pissing off Santa Claus or the Easter bunny. Fear shouldn’t be your driving force. Drive YOUR bus and do not allow someone else to drive.

Marriage is an institution which you can, of course, get out of but now you have legal ramifications associated to the split. Now you have to try to equalize everything that never was equal and will never be equal. Now you can toss your kids back and forth and worry even more if you’re harming them with your beliefs and hopes and dreams. Now you are chained to a new set of circumstances and rules in which you must agree with someone else you do not agree with.

So if all that is what you want, fine, but be certain. Know WHY you want marriage, kids, church and property because they come with a hefty price tag and tons of responsibility. Know WHEN you want these things so that you can accomplish your solitary things and not feel gypped. Find someone who also wants those things. Stick to your fucking guns so you don’t live with regret or resentment. Figure out what you really want and go get those things!! Do not allow the opinions of others to alter your direction.

“Ohhhh, when are you two having kids?!”

“How lovely your apartment is! You are going to buy a house, though, right?”

“A sibling should never grow up alone.”

“You should get your brood baptized.”

“You still haven’t had a proper ceremony so perhaps you should get remarried.”

Kiss your money, your freedom, your clarity, your weekends good bye. Welcome chaos and disdain! Work. Clean. Die. Repeat. If you just organize your cabinets so that everything is OUT of them and on the counter, you won’t have to get pissed off that nothing has been put away.

You want a house and a garage and a fence and a dog and a child and a lawfully declared partner because that is the ‘norm’ and because it is what you see. Conformity is driving your bus.

It was summer and I was sitting out on my parental unit’s deck, watching the sun set after a long day of drinking and cruising on the boat. I was a little inebriated. A couple tears rolled down my cheeks. Post-fire, in my new apartment in downtown Waukesha.

“What’s the matter, Little Girl?”

“I don’t know. Here I am, 30-years-old, without a decent job or a house or things to fill the house with. What am I working toward? Shouldn’t I know by now?”

My father laughed.

“Here you are, young and free to do what you like and yet you’re worried about not having a mortgage. I’m more than twice your age and still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.”

Written at 7:13 a.m.