Bent Words

Bent Words

June 10, 2020


I was trying to avoid the internal self-hate speak but it’s about all I have right now.

Production’s down because of me forgetting to put a fucking scanline onto not one but two jobs.

What is WRONG with me? Why can I never get it right? I’m defective. Doesn’t matter how long I work or how hard I try. I still fuck it all up no matter what.

I’m trying to see A N Y T H I N G here to recommend me.

I have the heart, the drive, the tenacity to keep at it but what’s the point when, in the end, it’s never right?

I never thought I’d be this broken. It’s laughable.

Why can I not remember anything? Why am I so unorganized? Why can’t I keep up?? How do I miss so much? Is it just the significant amount of overloading onto my shoulders?

What the FUCK do people think of me?!

My co-workers, my family, my friends, my acquaintances. I know. “What others think about me is none of my business” but I’m not very good at not worrying about that. I genuinely think I’m going to need some taking care of here because in maybe five years I will be completely useless at the rate I’m going. I won’t know who anyone is or what a fucking scanline is and luckily my office is downstairs because otherwise I’m pretty sure I’d get lost on the way to work.

But let’s not rule that one out just yet.



It’s just like a lie.

Here’s what you’re supposed to do. Here’s who you’re supposed to be. Here’s where you belong. As long as you don’t squint too hard or concentrate for too long, you’ll be convinced. For a spell, at least.

I hear his innocence and integrity every time he answers the phone. I hear the past creep up to my desk in the back room and ask me if I want breakfast (when I’ve already eaten). He waits a little longer than he should for the answer. I’m picking parts and he’s picking me.

He loved my “I don’t care” and all of my GRRRR but that’s all broken now so what’s there to love? He loved my Lake given grin and super sassy replies. We’d stay up all night just playing Speed.

Was that too long ago?

Does that even matter?

I’m defective.

“No,” Dr. Scott says, I’m just too romantic. Reading all my stories at night. Writing about my history until it comes alive. And I’m lingering there or unable to leave.

Maybe everything would be better somehow. If I felt love again and believed in my ability and stopped using my mistakes for punching bags and gave myself an ounce of credit. That joy in my face over a fucking Bloody Buddy (Mary) or breakfast sausages with Dijon mustard in the morning or a cold Coors Light sweating in the afternoon sun. Christmas cookies and appetizers at restaurants. Cool, clean sheets and dirty intentions. Corn hole and horseshoes and dice and I suck at Poker and forget all the rules to Cribbage but I love to play ALL THE GAMES! I love bar hopping, a song I can sing all the words to, puzzles and the way they look when people are watching me when I laugh too loud or get too rowdy. I love hard handshakes, good fucking stories told over and over again and anyone on a motorcycle (especially naked and upright whatevers), taking notes and writing letters and bitchin’ burgers and horseradish.

There was joy in the grass and smiles shoveling snow. Putting out the pier and raking falls leaves (no, not really – leaves suck – unless you’re jumping in them but then you’ll get ticks all over you and have to re-rake which is dumb). But, PALM TREES! Driving along the ocean and getting out wherever and sand sucks balls but sometimes it doesn’t and seaside restaurants with bang, bang shrimp ya’ll.

Quiet. A long novel. The wind shuuushing you through the leaves in trees, begging you to listen. Peaceful moments interrupted with laughter. Early mornings with no where to go. Gentle reminders and checking things off of lists.

I just want it back if it’s there to be gotten.

But if I broke it before, could I break it again?

Am I too much me or too little of my history? Am I just beyond??

Maybe all I’m doing is wasting time.

Maybe selfish kids just DO this to you. Maybe I’d have all those things back if I just waited (for five million years).

Man, I wish I had it together better. I wish I knew. I wish I was believable instead of so fucking laughable.

WARNING: Batteries NOT included.

Written at 5:40 p.m.