Work

Stolen Moments

I really need to get better about finding the time to write. On my days off, I seem to find the moments necessary to pump out at least a few thousand words, but any day that I’ve been working, I just cannot seem to make it happen. It could be that I haven’t been sleeping all that well (which has to do, of course, with the fact that it’s been warm lately, and I’ve been laying down to bed while it’s still light out), or that by the time that I get home, the Minkey has already risen, and seeks to either monopolize the desk’s occupants, or run around the bedroom, shrieking. By the time that I finally have some peace and quiet, it’s usually just about my bedtime (or a little after), and the choice between trying to get some writing done or trying to get myself to sleep isn’t really a choice at all. Eventually, my son will be going back to school, which should free up some hours between when I get home from work, and when I have to go to pick him up from school. But until then, I guess I will just have to figure something else out. I’ve even considered trying to get to sleep an hour earlier, so that I can have an extra hour to my morning in which I can sit down to write before I go to work. Of course, this would mean that I would have to go to bed around five o’clock in the afternoon, and considering how hard it is to fall asleep by six, I’m not going to hold my breath.

Speaking of my job, it seems that I am beginning to work my way up the corporate ladder. When I initially interviewed with the Store Manager (who I discovered was leaving shortly after I had started working there), he informed me that there were two types of positions open: a regular cashier gig, and supervisor position in the Back of House. If he was going to consider me for the latter, he informed me, he would have his Assistant Manager conduct another interview, and, based upon his recommendation, I would either get the better job, or not. As it turns out, I wound up with neither. I did my training (as I’ve discussed in this blog before), thinking that I would wind up as a cashier, but in my first week out of training, I was scheduled to be working with the jobber crew. Since then, I’ve managed to earn the respect of my manager and my coworkers, and convinced said manager to adjust my schedule to get me to as close to thirty hours as he can (his superiors are breathing down his neck because I am, apparently, only classified as a part-time employee, because almost nobody, it turns out, is actually scheduled for full-time. But there is a small silver lining: for the past week, we have been discussing, this manager and I, the prospect of my promotion to the job to which I thought that I would probably have preferred.

It speaks volumes about my work ethic, that within a couple of weeks at a job, I’ve already impressed someone enough to make them want to promote me. Well, that, and the fact that since the position has yet to be filled, this manager (who it turns out is the Assistant Manager with whom I would have had my second interview, according to the Store Manager) has been having to fulfill the duties of the supervisor and his responsibilities as an Assistant Manager. He’s eager to pass the torch to someone so that he can actually manage to give himself some breathing room, and plan things out a bit in advance, as opposed to flying by the seat of his pants, which is what he has been forced to do since the post was last vacated. At some point this week, he’s going to give me the second application (I guess that I have to do another one, for some reason), and set up my interview with the Store Manager (whether it be the one who hired me, or his replacement). He’s trying to tamp down my expectations about the pay increase (which I’m not too worried about, as I have picked up the job-specific stuff very quickly, and the management requirements have been far exceeded), but as I told him, even at the minimum end of the pay scale for this position (which entails a $2 raise), I will be making double what I’m making now, as the position is full-time. And that is the sad reality of the working poor in this country.

Most larger places have responded to the employer requirements of the ACA by ensuring that the majority of their employees are classified as part-time, so as to avoid the obligation to even offer them the chance to purchase health insurance. This has had the consequence, at least in my place of employment, of making it so that we never have enough people to stock the store consistently, which, in turn, means that we have less product on the floor, which in turn means that sales drop because customers cannot find the things they came to purchase, which results in labor shrinking, which means that there are even less people to do the work which already required more people in the first place. I can already feel the stress of management creeping into me once more, and I haven’t even been officially promoted yet. Flor just wanted me to find a job which I could work, wherein I wouldn’t be required to give a shit, and, to be honest, it kind of appealed to me. But the extended stretch of joblessness which I experienced meant that I can’t just coast along on a small amount of hours just for some dicking around cash. As soon as something happens, I’ll make sure to let you guys know. Until then, just cross your fingers and wish me luck.

Family

Birthdays and Stories

Eight years ago today, just a little after eight o’clock at night, The Minkey took his first breaths, and I was changed forever (obviously, he was fundamentally changed by the very act of being born, and, having been a twelve-pound natural birth, he rather changed his mother as well, but this is my story, so we’re sticking with my perspective). It was a fitting end to an eventful pregnancy, and I found myself staring into the unending stretch of infinity as I considered what this tiny baby represented, and how he carried me forever forward into the future, yet another step towards genetic immortality, a journey which had begun billions of years before, and would continue until the last of my descendants failed to use their charm to talk a member of the opposite sex into overlooking our obvious physical limitations in favor of our humor and romantic natures. I figured that I would be the final member of my particular genetic line, but it turns out that there is someone for everyone, and several months later, nature having taken care of itself without any regard to my efforts both to help and to hinder, my son was passed that particular torch, and from somewhere deep with a double helix, I felt a sigh of relief. I may have valid reasons for having been hesitant to pass along defective genes, but they didn’t recognize my authority to negotiate on their behalf.

David was born a week late, and would have been induced on the tenth anniversary of a very special night (one that only comes once in a young man’s life), had he not decided to enter the world when he had. I’d been growing concerned about this, feeling that it must be some sort of sign that something was going to happen, and it was bad enough that Flor, despite being a little over nine months pregnant, picked up on it almost immediately. Unfortunately, it wasn’t really the sort of thing that a guy can openly discuss with his pregnant girlfriend. I did manage to build up the courage to tell her a number of years later, to about the sort of reception which I had been imagining. The evening of the 26th, we decided to take an evening for ourselves, Flor and I, figuring that, one way or another, it might very well be our last chance for the foreseeable future, and went out to an Italian restaurant in downtown Berkeley which we’d seen before, but at which we’d never eaten. I forgot what Flor ordered, but I had the pasta carbonara. As it tuns out, I should have been paying better attention to Flor’s menu option, as the following morning, the contractions began.

I distinctly remember being calmer than expectant fathers are normally portrayed in film, but Flor reminds every year that I was just as excitable and useless. Her brother (and his children) came to pick us up in the early afternoon, and drive us to the hospital. We took a more direct route than that which I had grown accustomed to, having become a professional rider of buses, and I remember thinking how strange it was that I had never been that way before, and how streets lined on either side with Palm tress seemed both beautiful and stereotypically Californian. Flor had made sure that we’d brought everything important for the next few days, whereas I made sure I’d brought along my Cuban cigar, which had been a gift from Fed. I’d suggested that perhaps a bottle of Absinthe might have been more appropriate, both metaphorically and literally, but he reminded me that a cigar was more traditional, and that the Absinthe in his possession was his. Unwilling to walk away empty-handed, I thanked him for the cigar, and talked him out of a glass of Absinthe, since he already had it out. It was delicious.

Up until we’d gotten to the hospital, Flor seemed under the delusion that she would prefer to have a completely natural experience. I kept reminding her that having a miniature human explode from her nether regions, while traditional and evolutionarily approved, was still about the most unnatural thing that either of us was likely to experience until Holodecks became a thing. As the contractions grew closer, and the shifting mass of life began to thrash about her womb as if it were a mosh pit, she began to reconsider, which was good, because by the time she finally got the epidural, it was almost too late. They’d left her suffering for too long, and when they finally showed up, she practically jammed the needle into her spine on her very own. I would like to take a moment now to mention something which has been riffed upon by comedians for as long as I can remember: I would like to get an epidural at least once before I die. I have been high, in my more youthful days, to such an extent that I could understand both nothingness and infinity (they are the same thing), warp across large spaces in just a couple of steps, and get lost between my driveway and the next, and I have never been as high as Flor was in the hours before my son was born.

I told her stories about a Princess who came to a strange land to save the day, sacrificing the life she knew for one of constant confusion and struggle. How she was stuck there, even after her quest was done, as if there was something more which she had yet to do. How she met a warbling minstrel, and fell in love with him, though she was of noble birth, and he was as far from nobility as one could ever hope to be. How they had a son, an intelligent and creative son, one who would validate their struggles in this land which was not her own, and redeem them with the beauty which he would both deliver to, and inspire within this sad and barren country. And how, though she had not seen them since she’d had to leave, her parents, the King and Queen forgave her for her absence, and were well pleased by their newborn grandson. By the time I had finished, she had been passed out for a while, though for exactly how long, I couldn’t tell you, as I’d been caught up in the telling of our story in only slightly mangled Spanish. Her dreams did not last for long, however, as when it was go time, the stabs of pain tore raggedly through the blanket haze of the drugs and brought her into focus.

David spent the first week of his life in the NICU, and Flor, though discharged from the hospital, never left his side. When we were finally able to bring him home, it seemed that he’d gotten so much bigger (though, according to his measurements, he’d only barely caught up with his birth weight), and all of the newborn clothes and accessories we’d purchased and were given, were woefully inadequate to cover him. It was a mad dash to get him larger things to wear, both clothing and diapers, and we discovered that they don’t actually make newborn things in giant sizes. He grew so quickly, both physically and mentally, that by the time Valentine’s Day ’08 had rolled around, he’d managed enough motor control to stab me in the eye. Before I knew it, he was walking (and getting into everything), talking (he still hasn’t shut up since), and doing his best to force his will upon everyone he meets.

Average attendance for David's parties (not really).
His first birthday party was a little underwhelming.

Soon it was time for his first birthday party, which, as I mentioned above, was a little underwhelming. We also took him up to celebrate in Washington, but the turnout was more or less the same, especially if you disqualify family attendance. And then, before we knew it, his sister came to live with us, Flor and I got married, and David was celebrating another birthday. His third and fourth birthdays were slightly more festive affairs (with a Star Trek cake and TARDIS cake, respectively), and by his fifth birthday, his mother had decided not to spend a fortune on his party. This year is a far more sober affair, intentionally small and inexpensive, and I’m hoping that it will be his favorite to date, but mainly because he’s getting LEGO Jurassic World, and he hasn’t shut up about wanting it since the first time that he saw that it existed.

I have had the pleasure of knowing him for his entire life, and watching him along the path to the man who he is destined to become, growing and developing before my very eyes. From the first time that I saw him on a sonogram, appearing as some sort of water-based demonic lifeform, to the first time that I saw him in the flesh, covered in goo, with a reflating head, to the moment when I knew that I was a dad, when he was connected up to machines through wires and tubes stuck into the stump of what once had been his most intimate connection to another human being, I have watched him grow. And from the first time he rolled over, to his first steps, to his roaming about and randomly collapsing in the backyard of the apartment which we had in Berkeley, I have been there to see him developing. His first words spoken, his first sentence, and the first words, and then first book he ever read; the pride in me swelled up so much that I could barely maintain a balance. I do not know who he’ll become, but I’ve seen him as he’s doing it. I love him a little more, each and every day, though there are times when I would much rather not have to suffer him. He is my son, my future and my nemesis, and I love him more than I ever though was possible.

From the moments in which I first saw him
From the moments in which I first saw him
My reason for wanting to have a better life. Also pictured: My family.
To the first time that he something which I had wanted him to see
Progress and Equality in the 21st Century? Ha!
To when he began to laugh at me
"Well, you NEVER share with me SOMETIMES!" -David, right now.
To when I stopped feeling bad when I laughed at him
And, other times, he is... less profound.
From the happy moments
To the sad
To the sad
Looking out into the distance
I have always loved him
And I always will
And I always will
From now until my final breath
From now until my final breath
David William, I love you
David William, I love you
Work

UPDATE: The Broken Bat(mart)

As I described in The Broken Bat(mart) a couple of days ago, not to mention at least half of my posts here on the website, I am suffering from a fair amount of pain, to the point of feeling physically and mentally battered and very close to almost broken. I’d thought that it was pretty bad when I was working in restaurants, but after a six month sabbatical, and subsequent employment at a far more physically demanding job, it turns out that it has gotten much, much worse. Like I mentioned last week, in Agony- 13.5 Years, I was very near the point of quitting before I’d truly managed to get started. Honestly, I believe that it was only the shame of having to give up so quickly which managed to bolster my tenacity and allow me to stick it out and try to find my footing. Pride, however, doesn’t do a lot in terms of pain relief, and even though it hasn’t been as bad as that first day unloading the truck, I could feel the cumulative effects of so much physicality, and knew that I would have to finally do something. Normally, I would have been tempted to utilize “back channels” to locate what I needed (after having had such a miserable experience with my last physician), but because of my employer’s policies, that could have wound up costing me my job. So I waited until payday, and got myself to the local Urgent Care offices.

I didn’t hold much hope, mind you, that anything would happen, considering the hoops I had to jump through (not to mention the hundreds of dollars in co-pays for doctor appointments and medication which didn’t work) just so that nothing would, even in the slightest bit, change, aside from the size of my bank account. And, considering how much time I had to wait before finally being admitted, I’m amazed that anyone actually saw me at all. At least when I go again, I’ll be in the system, and won’t have to sign so much infernal paperwork. I was sitting in the waiting room for nearly an hour, being kicked (I hope by accident) by a parade of toddlers running past me on their way to and from their mommies and the toys back in the corner. I did my best not to scowl at them, as I generally do like children, but considering that I was in there because of extreme (Extreme!) leg pain, every little kick against my foot shot spears of agony up through my legs, resonating loudly just behind my knees as they ascended. Needless to say, by the time that I was finally called back, I was nearly in tears.

Things I learned from this visit:

1) I have gained nearly fifteen pounds since quitting my last job.

2) Apparently my blood pressure is bad enough that both the nurse and the doctor could barely conceal both their surprise and concern about seeing the numbers.

3) The beds they have to sit on in the exam rooms are precisely the wrong shape and height if you are suffering from leg pain.

I’d thought that it was a long and mind-numbing wait to get into the exam room, but it was so much worse once I was in there, despite the fact that toddlers were no longer smacking up against me. If it weren’t for the constant painful throbbing in my legs, I might have actually passed out from boredom. When the doctor finally entered, I had lost the boiling pit of vitriol which I had been nurturing since that morning, and was only able to describe my pain with a sigh of resignation. Considering how everything wound up playing out, that may have been for the best. I told her how this wasn’t something new, and the nonsense that I endured at the hands of my last physician. I told her how my current job was the only one to call me, and though it’s physically destroying me and refusing to provide me with enough hours to live on (especially considering that they’re only paying me minimum wage), it was all I had, and that I needed to find a way to keep going back. I told her that I knew that my expanding girth was contributing to my pain, and that half a year of relative inactivity, while a welcome respite from the pain I’d felt those last few years that I’d been working, had only made it that much harder when I wound up going back to work.

And then the most amazing thing happened: I told her what the physical therapist had told me (which my doctor had ignored) which was that I should be on muscle relaxants, and instead of arguing with me, she just nodded, and motioned for me to continue. For the first time in well over a decade, a doctor actually listened to me. Maybe it’s because most drug addicts aren’t hitting up their doctors for muscle relaxants when they could be there for more powerful narcotics, or maybe it was that she heard the truth of my pain hidden somewhere in my voice. Whatever it was, she told me that she’d be prescribing a muscle relaxant for me, and something for my pain. She then left me waiting for another half an hour, so as to make sure that I remembered that I was still dealing with the health care system in America. The nurse came in again, with the two prescriptions, and wished me well, apologizing for the delay, and reassuring me (though a bit belatedly) that I hadn’t been forgotten. I thanked her, and gimped out past a newly refilled waiting room and off toward a pharmacy.

I normally go Walgreen’s when I fill prescriptions, but my legs were hurting (as I may have mentioned once or twice), and so it was that I finally paid a visit to the little pharmacy less than a block away. I think what really sold me was that they advertised “15 Minute Prescriptions”, and the soonest I could hope to get them from the nearest Walgreen’s was at least an hour, and then, only if there wasn’t anyone in line ahead of me, which, considering that it was almost five o’clock on a Friday afternoon, didn’t seem too likely. I don’t know how much my meds would have cost me, but that day, at least, I was more concerned about sooner than cheaper. Within eight minutes, measured from when I first walked in the door, I had my bottles of Tramadol and Baclofen. They’d cost me $47.00 (and the Urgent Care visit had run me $45- which meant that I had spent almost half my check on medical care for the next week), but for the first time in what could have easily passed for forever, I felt almost human again. The walk back to my apartment didn’t hurt, and I was able to greet my waiting son with loving attention instead of pained tolerance and distance.

Obviously, I cannot continue to spend half of every paycheck on medicine so that I can keep working at that job, but for now, at least, I feel the future is at least slightly brighter than it was before. My fingers are crossed, and my knees are no longer killing me. Here’s to the future!

Current Events

Equality

In this most recent push for equality, I am left with a particularly bitter taste in my mouth. It is a source of shame for me that we are living in the twenty-first century and it is only now that we have seen a push for equality in the United States. And, to be fair, it’s only the tiniest bit of equality which we are addressing: marriage. In many states, you can still be fired for being gay, or killed without any repercussions depending upon the color of your skin or your socioeconomic status. Hell, if you are born without a penis, you are forced to go through life subjected to the judgments about your body and your sexuality by people who will never have even the slightest conception of what it means to be a woman. I am a sensitive, intelligent human being (with the soul of a clown, which forces me to blow it at the most crucial moments), and even I cannot fully comprehend even the smallest struggles which more than half of the world’s human population must face upon a daily basis. I mean, I can understand them in theory, but I do not truly feel them as my own. With so much injustice left to face, it seems almost ridiculous that we had to waste our time on something so obvious as letting people marry.

Just to be clear: I don’t honestly care about gay marriage, insomuch as I am not gay, and have already gotten married. If two people love each other so much that they want to spend the rest of their lives together, who gives a shit if they make it official? It’s not about what it says in the Bible (unless you also believe that women are property and pork is a bad thing): telling people what they can do together in the privacy of their own homes seems socially retarded to me. Unless you are madly in love with someone (who had not yet reciprocated your amorous displays of affection), and that someone is just about to say, “I do” to someone who isn’t you, then the marriage of two people who aren’t you doesn’t affect you in the slightest. And even if you are suffering from unrequited love, sometimes that’s just how it goes. I’ve been a hopeless, romantic poet for long enough that unrequited love for me is just another way of saying breathing. What I believe that it all comes down to is that people don’t approve of sex between two (or more) people of the same gender. I mean, I guess a lot of them don’t believe in any flavor other than vanilla, either, when they go to Baskin-Robbins. But I’ve got something to say about that as well: If you haven’t been invited into the bedroom of a consenting adult, you really don’t get a say about what goes on in there.

That being said, I suppose there are some people who are genuinely disgusted by the notion of anybody having sex. I would imagine that these are the same people who write letters to various representatives, governmental agencies, and applicable corporations to complain about something which they’ve seen on the television, demanding that it be removed from the airwaves, instead of simply changing the channel. I’m not interested in the slightest bit about any of the Kardashians (well, I think that… Kourtney(?)  is moderately adorable, but that’s only because my daughter usually keeps the E! channel on in the living room), but I’m not about to call somebody on the phone and demand that their television program be removed simply because I don’t much care for it. I know how to change the channel. I don’t get to decide what other people get to enjoy. As long as what someone else is doing isn’t actually harming anyone (a case could be made for the harm caused by “reality television”, but that argument is for another day, preferably when I demand that everyone should be watching Star Trek), why should it even matter what I think about it? Of course, these people are quick to jump to their inalienable right to discriminate because of what their holiest of scriptures says. They have a duty, you see, to protect us from everything they think their God might have a problem with, as if he were not, in fact, omnipotent, and capable of sorting everything out for Himself.

But here’s the thing (which I’ve said before, and will most likely say again): if people are so against marriage equality because they think that it is a virtual endorsement of the kind of “lifestyle” which they abhor, then I feel that I  must pity them for having been so wrong. The quickest way to stamp out this rash of homosexual coupling is to encourage gay marriage. Sure, the honeymoon will be filled with all sorts of tender moments, but nothing kills the romance like facing down the reality that you’re going to be stuck with the same person and their jiggly bits forever. If you want to end the scourge of homosexual sex, get them to put a ring on it. The same thing goes for all the other “deviants” out there. Nothing puts the flames of adventurous relations like a long-term, monogamous commitment. Or, I suppose, these people could just get over themselves and pick something else to work themselves into a lather about.

It all comes down to whether we believe that we have the right to tell other people who they have to be. I don’t have that right, and I can’t claim that I am being persecuted if no one lets me enforce my vision upon everyone who might disagree. It’s disgusting that we’re even still having this discussion, and the fact that we’re having it at all is progress. I don’t care about gay marriage, because I don’t care about marriages that don’t even tangentially affect me, and if one of my friends gets married, the only thing I care about is if they love each other and treat each other well. End of discussion.

Mental Illness, Work

The Broken Bat(mart)

I am broken into a million pieces, each smaller than the last, and throbbing in an electric pulse of agony which threatens not only my physical well-being, but also that of my mental state. Tomorrow, or the day after, I will have to pay a visit to the Urgent Care Center and find a way to convince them that I’m going to need something stronger than prescription-strength Aleve. I mean, were I not employed by a ridiculously cartoonish corporation who feels threatened enough by the successes of labor unions back when they were relevant in America to paint them in an obviously nefarious light (I mean come on: That video was essentially Reefer Madness 2!), I would take advantage of my wife’s reluctant acceptance of at least the concept of medical marijuana and be done with it. But because my employer insists on random drug tests (to which I have not yet had to submit myself), and the fact that marijuana is still classified as a Schedule I narcotic (meaning it has no medicinal value whatsoever and a high potential for abuse), even if I were to possess a valid prescription for the THC which would be floating around inside of me for the foreseeable future, I would lose my job for having used an illegal substance. What that means is that, instead of the possibility of taking one thing to combat the pain, muscle tension, loss of appetite and anxiety, there exists the real possibility that I will either have to take something with a higher risk for dependence (or multiple things), or simply receive no help at all.

That was what happened back when I had a regular doctor and health insurance. He refused to actually listen to me, and insisted on writing ineffective prescriptions, which I had to dutifully fill (still costing me money, despite the discount from the insurance), and give a chance while the side effects wound up being worse than my original problem. You see, I made the mistake of letting him know that I have Bi-Polar Type II, hoping that he could just write me a prescription for lithium and order regular blood draws. So when we were trying to address the constant pain from which I was suffering, he decided that it would be better to try to kill two birds with one stone. Obviously that didn’t work. Anti-depressants have never worked for me, as they don’t actually address the mania (lithium, for those of you who aren’t aware, is an anti-manic. It works by limit the scope of the mania, which, in turn, means that it can mitigate the depression.), and indeed, have a tendency to make my psyche go a little… off. By the time he finally got around to referring me to a pain specialist, I was out of time and money (each of his useless visits also coming out of my pocket, $20 at a time). Why is it so hard to get proper medical help in this bloody country?

I realize that there are a lot of people who just want opiates to get high. I can respect that, as life is kind of a bummer, and opiates make all of that just sort of go away. I had a prescription for a little while for Vicodin, and I could understand the appeal. But, having had my fun during my late teens and early twenties, I’m really not that much of a risk for abuse. You see, as much as I would love to fall into the bottom of a bottle of whichever poison lays before me, I’ve got things to do. I have a son to worry about, a job to keep, and bills to pay. There’s a reason that I gave up drinking (aside from just a handful of times per year), and it wasn’t because I couldn’t afford it (though my love affair with high-end Scotch could have presented just the slightest bit of a problem were it not for hard-earned wisdom). I don’t want to get high, at least, not like that. I’m sure there will come a day when I just can’t take it any longer, and I invite the world to come crashing down upon me, but today is not that day. For whatever reason, it seems that I have to stay alive for at least a little while longer, and I promised myself that the next time that get back into harmful things, I’m doing it for keeps. I just want the pain to go away.

I have tried naproxen, aspirin, caffeine, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, epsom salt baths, massage, those handheld electrocution massagers, stretching, and everything else which I can purchase without medical assistance. I’ve also had to deal with a disturbingly high number of anti-depressants used off-label (to deleterious effect) upon the directions of my physician. The only times I’ve ever been pain-free were when I was given the opportunity to take something actually designed to combat chronic pain. And it’s a vicious cycle: as the pain increases (or at least, refuses to abate), I am able to engage in significantly less physical activity, and unable to stomach even the idea of eating more than once or maybe twice a day. So my weight increases, which puts more of a strain upon me, increasing the standard of pain. What I have gotten used to, insomuch as someone can get used to this agony, I would refer to as about a “7” on the pain scale, but that means (to me, at least) only that I have found a way to push temporarily through it, while awaiting the spikes of “9” or “10”. If you were to give that pain to myself from even six years ago, he would describe it with a much higher number. If you were to inflict it upon the me from the mid-nineties, he would probably go catatonic. I just want to be pain-free.

And this job I have isn’t helping. It’s a physically demanding job, and it’s beating the holy hell out of me. If I were my own doctor, my advice to me would be to find anything else. But here’s the thing: I’ve looked. After months of trying to find something I might have a chance of not despising, my current employer was the only place to call me back. I know it’s a shitty job, and I know it’s a shitty amount of money, and I know what it is doing to me, but I need it all the same. When you’re making minimum wage, you have to take whatever hours they will give you, and you can’t do that if you cannot get out of bed. That day hasn’t come yet, but I know it will. I can’t get to sleep until the sun goes down (near enough to 8:30 in the evening, and that means that it doesn’t even start to get properly dark until somewhere closer to 9), and I have to be awake again by 3 a.m. at the very latest, so that I can get out the door by 3:20 to make the walk to work. Do the math. And then, when I get home, David is awake, and the chances for me to sleep are nonexistent (this, by the way, has been one of the reasons why I haven’t been able to write these past few days). Add that in with the worsening pain, and tacked-on responsibilities at work due to consistent demonstrations of competency, and it’s a wonder that I’ve made it as long as I have.

So yeah, I’m feeling a little broken right now, both physically and monetarily. I know that at some point, things will get better, but I can’t honestly believe right now.

Uncategorized

Jury Duty

For the third time since I moved to California, I was summoned for Jury Duty. The first time, I had to sit through an entire thing before most of us were dismissed for having heard of asbestos before. The last time I went, I wound up sitting around for a few hours before a judge came to tell us that all the potential cases had been dealt with, and that we were free to go. I was a little nervous going into today, because jury duty only pays $15/day, and though I’m not making that much more on my shifts at work, it’s still a shortfall. But here’s the thing: since I escaped my twenties, I’ve actually been interested in serving. I’d like to say that I was interested in looking out for the interests of the little guy, or even that I’ve finally accepted the necessity of performing one of my three civic duties. but honestly it comes down to the fact that I was on the debate team in high school, and am fascinated by the entire process. I just wish that the state would cough up at least minimum wage for my time, and that they’d pay for the first day. Not that it really matters, though. After sitting on my butt for a little over three hours, looking forward to the ninety minute lunch break wherein I would have to pretend that I wasn’t really hungry because I have no cash, we were informed that we were all being released for the day, thanked for our service, and reminded that we were now free of jury summons for at least another year.

Flor, of course, was livid. She’d already been upset that I’d had to turn down an extra shift at work so that I could discharge one of my civic duties (the others being voting and paying my taxes), and when she found out that it was literally for nothing, she erupted. Fun fact: according to my wife, there is no jury duty in Mexico. If you ever have to go to court, I guess it’s just the lawyers and the judge, which kind of terrifies me a bit. It’s way harder to get to twelve people (plus alternates) than it is to bribe one man (or woman). I tried to explain that for these cases, they needed to have us ready so that if they actually went to trial, we would be ready. It wasn’t our fault if there was a procedural issue that postponed the trial beyond the day of our selection. I mean, they can’t just call us in at the last minute and throw it all together. And in California, we’re on a One Day or One Trial system. That means that if we’re not selected for a jury on the day which we are required to report, we have fulfilled our obligations, and can put it out of our minds for another twelve months. If, however, we are selected for a jury, we must serve the duration of the trial. On the one hand, I’m grateful that I was sent home, as I don’t think that I could afford to only make $15/day, but on the other hand, I’m a little disappointed that I haven’t ever gotten to be a part of the process, except as a defendant.

This has got me wondering, though, if that means that I am a little weird. I mean, do I have some secret agenda? Is there a reason why I’d really like to be chosen to serve upon a jury? Aside from the point about my love of procedural litigation, I do believe that someone should be there to ponder the implications of the law, who is willing to push for nullification should the need arise. And grey areas are my bread and butter. Give me something straightforward, and I will sit and stare at it all day, confused by the fact that there are no hidden tricks just out of view, waiting to trip me up. But abstract questions, and ethics, and the convoluted wording of the written law are things which light me up like what I can only imagine joy must be for other, more normal people. Ask anyone who knows me in real life, and they will tell you (without much prompting) that I am always ready to jump into an argument, and that they would much rather concede whatever point we happen to be discussing, rather than face the possibility of arguing against me for another hour. They are college football players, used to a rapid succession of facts, and a clearly defined winner after an appropriate amount of time. I, on the other hand, am a cricketer through and through, as I am willing to go the distance, even if it might mean a match of wits measured better by days than hours (though my opponents would most rather prefer to measure them in minutes), confident enough in my abilities that I do not require clear criteria for victory, and count a win by default just as worthy as one won by skill. If I were a politician, you could call me Phil A. Buster, is what I’m trying to get at.

So I’ve done my duty this time around, and all that’s left will be to file my taxes and vote in the next election. I’d say that 2016 was going to be a busy year for me, what with having to worry about all three acts of participatory democracy, but I’m not all that worried about getting another summons. I mean, I didn’t even get a summons until I’d already been living here five years (which may have been due to the fact that I didn’t get a California ID card until the middle of November in 2005. The last time they sent me a notice was either two or three years ago, and then they just sent me one this year. Unless the rate of crime skyrockets in the coming three hundred and sixty-five, it’s not looking likely that I’ll have to go until, at the very least, 2017, and by then, I hope to be living comfortably in Mexico, where I’ve heard there is no jury duty. Not that they could summon me, even if they did have juries, as I won’t be seeking citizenship (unless this country finds a way to completely implode).

Huh. It’s a kind of bittersweet realization that this may have been my final chance to have served upon a jury.

Family

Father’s Day (NSFW-L)

As it says in the title, this post may be slightly Not Safe For Work due to Language. While the piece I wrote for Mother’s Day may have seemed mean-spirited, it, at least, was fairly straightforward. While my relationship with my mother may have had its ups and downs, that was mainly due to her always being around, whether I wanted her to be or not. Spend enough time with me, and you will either grow to hate me, or I will come to despise you. It’s not intentional, it’s just sort of how it all works out. I never had to worry about that with my dad, as to this day, I have still never actually met the man. Everything I know about him comes from other people, and the only people whom I know that knew him are the family of my mother. I’m not saying that they’ve said only negative things about him, but it wasn’t their job to do so. I mean, they were on team My Mom after all. They did try to be fair, though, as best they could, but even stories of the man who bailed on me weren’t much in the way of knowing him.

I had some role models when I was growing up, men who filled in for my absent father. There was my grandfather, who set aside every Friday to spend time with me (and his leather slippers when I was teething); my best friend (Wart)’s dad, who made me feel welcome, and part of the family practically every other weekend between Kindergarten and the 6th Grade; my uncle, who was into nerdy stuff like computers, and who seemed to understand some of the stuff I was going through as I was growing up. They weren’t the same as having a dad, obviously, but they accepted the role that they must have obviously seen that I so desperately needed, and never made me feel as if there was something better that they could have been doing. And sure, I’ve had arguments with them, as I grew older, pitting the omniscience of youth against the rapidly diminishing patience of experience, but that was bound to happen, no matter who was modeling. I cannot help remembering one time when my girlfriend and I had split up for a while and I’d moved back into my grandparent’s house for about a month. My grandfather tried to offer me some advice which wasn’t really applicable at that time, and fired back that, despite all appearances to the contrary, I knew what I was doing, and would appreciate it if he got off my fucking back about it. I have since apologized, but I was right.

None, of this of course, has anything to do with my biological father. In thirty-five years, I’ve only ever almost met him precisely once. I suppose, considering that it is the earliest thing which I can remember, it’s no wonder that I’m so hung up on this.

I can’t remember what time of day it was, but the lights were on the house, so it was probably overcast. It was probably early afternoon. I was in the living room of the tiny two-bedroom house that my mother was renting from my great-grandmother, doing whatever it is that little kids do. I think my mother told me later that I was two or three years old, which would explain why that place seems so massive in my memory. Someone knocked on the door. and my mother lifted back the curtain and peeked outside to see who had come calling. The next thing I know, she is leading me quickly to my room, telling me that there is a “bad man at the door.” Once in my room, she ordered me to press my body up against the door as hard as I could, reiterating that there was a “bad man at the door.” I remember hearing raised voices, but I can’t recall exactly what was said. And then I heard my mom speaking to someone on the phone. I could tell the difference because everyone has a “phone voice.” I must have gotten bored, because the next thing I remember was that it had gotten dark, and that my grandfather had arrived. I remember hearing that the “bad man” had left, and that the sheriff had been called. And then my mother told me that everything was okay now. About a decade and a half later, I found out that the “bad man” had been my father, and that she was afraid that he was going to steal me away as a way of hurting her.

I have also heard stories of how my dad decided that he really didn’t want a kid, and there is a story wherein apparently my father tried to either end the pregnancy, my mother’s life, or both. My parents were divorced shortly after I was born.

Shortly before David was born, I looked up my father using the internet, and sent him a letter. I told him that he was going to be a grandfather, and that if he wanted to know his grandson, I would be happy to let him. I told him that I wasn’t looking for compensation for the eighteen years of child support he never paid, or an awkward attempt at some sort of father-son bond, if he wasn’t interested. Maybe, if he was interested, we could go and grab a beer, and introduce ourselves, but that would be the extent of it, if it was too awkward to contemplate more. It was possibly the most neutral, politic thing which I have ever written. And I never heard back from him. The following summer, his  brother, my Uncle Bob, contacted me, and let me know why. Apparently, my father suffers from severe depression, and was recovering from some sort of heart problems. He’d seen the letter, but couldn’t bear to open it (if I was uncertain up to that point that he and I were related, that bit of information forever confirmed our genetic bond), and left it to my uncle to see what was inside. My dad was afraid of me. Of the very notion of me.

It turns out that my father still didn’t want to meet me. An offhand comment from my mother which was misunderstood, apparently led him to believe that we were not related. To even consider speaking to me, he wanted a paternity test. I cannot blame him for feeling overwhelmed by everything, or not having had an amicable relationship with my mother. I get it. But here’s the thing, I don’t care. Not anymore. I know that he will never read this, and that the only time I will ever see him will be at his funeral, unless he’s already dead (though I would imagine that his brother might have informed me). So I’m going to just let it all out, everything that I need to tell him. If you don’t approve of offensive language, or aren’t interested in eavesdropping on so personal a message, feel free to stop reading here.

Dad,

I’ve given up ever trying to get to know you, even just man to man. I get why you left, and why the thought of children apparently terrified you. Trust me, I had to face that myself eight years ago. But here’s the thing: Fuck you for not being there! If you thought that your wife was so fucking terrible, why would you leave me there to suffer? Did you know that I had the chance to bail? While Flor was pregnant, and we were arguing the merits of bringing a child into the world on the amount of money we could generate, she gave me an out: she told me that if I wanted to run, if I didn’t want to be dad (or couldn’t be one), she would take the baby, and never contact me again. No child support, no obligation. Nothing. I had the fucking out, man, and I couldn’t take it. Because of you. I didn’t know how good of a father I would be, having never fucking had one in the first place, but I sure as shit knew what it was like to grow up without a dad. I weighed everything that was wrong with me: my trust issues, my fear of abandonment, my bi-polar disorder, the fact that every relationship that I had ever had up until that point had ended in hostilities. I had no reason to stay, other than the fact that I knew that I had to. Fuck you for not even trying.

This is the last time that I will worry about you on Father’s Day. You weren’t ever my father, hell- you weren’t even a dad. You were just a goddamned sperm donor! So, instead of paying tribute to the sprawling mythology which I’ve built up around you, I’m going a different route. I’ll celebrate this day a little differently from now on. You see, not being a dad, that just makes you a Mother Fucker. And that means that it’s only Motherfucker’s Day, which is the best that you’re ever going to get from me. I’m done with you. You had your fucking chance, and you blew it! I’m not the coolest person, or even the best son (see my post for Mother’s Day), but I am something worth knowing.

I hope you continue rotting away in misery, that every waking moment is consumed with regrets for things you never got around to. I hope that you are alone. That you die knowing that no one loves you, that no one even likes you all that much. Not that we ever shared anything more than a fucking surname, but you and I are fucking through! 

Happy Motherfucker’s Day!

Uncategorized

Lack of Sleep

So I’ve managed to pick up two additional days this week, one of them being almost a complete shift. Not too shabby for my first full week at my current job. I guess that I don’t completely suck, after all. Well, either that, or we’re seriously understaffed, and I’m simply a warm body. But I’ve been through this all before, at almost all of my jobs over the past dozen years or so, and as long as I can keep my current schedule (well, the start time, anyway), I think that it will be okay. I’m an early morning person, who has very little contact with our customers, and able to get out of work with plenty of day to spare. The only downside is that David absolutely refuses to go to bed on time, and that means that I’ve gotten very little sleep these past five days. It’s not so bad when Flor is here to run interference with David William, but on the nights when she is working, it means that I have to remain awake until my son has finally gone to sleep. I’m sure that I will find a way to make it work, sooner or later, but for right now, I’ve been ashamedly grateful for the part-time scheduling, as if I’m only going to get four or five hours of sleep, it’s nice that I don’t have to work much longer than a four or five-hour shift.

Unfortunately, Flor is going back to work at the billiard hall tonight, which means that I am doubly hosed. As you may remember, she would like me to accompany her on her walk home, as she’s off of work very late at night, and would prefer not to walk home alone. I’m on tomorrow at 5:30 in the morning, which means that I was already looking at a bad night’s sleep since I have to start waking up around 3:30 in the morning. Flor gets off at 2 o’clock this evening, which takes away another hour and a half of what little sleep I might have been able to manage. Considering that David isn’t likely to fall asleep until 10 o’clock or so (despite being fully aware that his bedtime is to be no later than 8:30 every night), that means that, if I’m really lucky, I might get three and a half hours of sleep tonight before I have to go get Flor. At that point, there won’t be much hope of me getting back to sleep, which means that I will work my first full shift at my new job on less than half the amount of sleep which I require. Still, I suppose that it could be worse. I mean, I could still be unemployed. And there’s nothing worse than that, apparently.

Next week won’t be so bad, though. I’ve got Jury Duty on Wednesday, which might wind up eating up my near future if I get chosen (though, if I am honest, I won’t be. I have opinions about things.), and David’s birthday on the weekend. His grandmother and great-grandmother chipped in and got him LEGO Jurassic World, which arrived today, and will be a constant temptation on my mind until the Monkey Man can open it. Times like these make we wish that school was year-round, although the fact that he’ll be here all day means that I have better odds at not opening it up and playing it before his birthday comes. Honestly, it would make a pretty awesome Father’s Day gift for Mr. Batmart. I’m not saying that I would open it on Sunday, thank David for his generosity, and figure out something of equal value to give to him next weekend, but I’m not denying it either. I mean, either way he’ll get to play, and it would mean that we could have that much more fun that much sooner. I mean, that sounds reasonable, right?

Okay, perhaps not. I wish that I could blame this all on a lack of sleep, but I’ve actually gotten a full night’s rest for the past two days. Maybe that’s my problem. I mean, obviously, four hours of sleep is not enough, but more than six just seems to wipe me out. I love how merely thinking about all the sleep I won’t be getting is exhausting me. But it’s now less than an hour until Flor has to go to work, and the odds of me nipping off for quick nap are about as good as me winning the lottery tonight, and since I haven’t even purchased a ticket, I’m not very hopeful. But at least I’m getting more work. If everything keeps going as it is, I’ll still be on track for a promotion along the same timetable as I seem to follow at every job I’ve had since I’ve moved to California. I don’t know that I really want the responsibility, but the extra money would be nice, not to mention the benefits. The key will be to maintain my open availability until I am too vital to store operations that I’m in a position to start making some demands.

I guess I’ll have to watch the ST: TNG marathon on BBC America, and try to remain moderately functional until the Minkey drops off to sleep. I’m hoping that he gets bored with the slightly dated special effects, and passes out as an act of defiance. I wish that he was more into reading. It doesn’t make me sleepy, but it keeps me quiet, and it could do the same for him. But the only things that he likes doing seem to involve him jumping around and making his own sound effects. Maybe tonight I will be lucky, and he will actually want to go to bed, but judging by his energy levels at the moment, that doesn’t seem too likely. Whatever. At the very least, maybe he will fall in love with Star Trek. He’s just a little too interested in Star Wars for my liking.

Uncategorized, Writing

Maybe When We’re Younger

 

I hear your hatred in my heart-

echoes loud as blood,

the nights we shared don’t ever seem

enough

to withstand the beatings of our souls.

But maybe when we’re younger, we’ll understand

It all.

For every hurt and pain that comes from this

another lesson has been learned.

 

Maybe when we’re younger,

spring will smile anew.

And maybe, when we’re younger,

our loves themselves renew.

 

Destroy me, discard me, regard me as shit-

but once, you loved me (makes it harder).

Forgive me, though I know I don’t deserve it,

and love me again (though I know not to

expect it).

Our hearts we crushed alone in pain as if we

could not know each other. So many

arguments… dark bitterness…

But what’s the point

anyway?

Forget me, and build your wall

and remember nothing you’ve

taught me.

 

Maybe when we’re younger,

spring will smile anew.

And maybe, when we’re younger,

our loves themselves renew.

 

So hate me now, the love can wait until tomorrow.

We sit and stab, while in the dark, ending up killing

ourselves (ourselves). Whatever was the point

any way?

But Maybe,

if we superglue and duct tape everything that’s left

(maybe when we’re younger, we’ll understand

it all),

we might live a little longer

and become a little younger.

Maybe when we’re younger we’ll understand

it all.

 

Maybe when we’re younger,

spring will smile anew.

And maybe, when we’re younger,

our loves themselves renew

Because I know that when we’re younger

a nightmare will have passed.

Maybe when we’re younger-

Maybe when we’re younger-

Maybe when we’re younger,

a nightmare will have passed.

 

-Maybe When We’re Younger

© 1998 Tex Batmart

 

I originally wrote this one day after my girlfriend and I had endured a massive fight during one of our housecleaning jobs. Part of the phraseology had to do with the fact that I was eighteen, and fed up with people telling me that I would understand things when I was older, and part of it was commentary of the age difference between my girlfriend and myself. For me, nineteen years didn’t seem like all that much, but as I slowly work my way to the age she was when we got together, it’s difficult to imagine myself falling for someone so much younger. One’s mid-thirties are a breeding ground for existential doubt, as I have begun to discover for myself; whereas one’s late teen years are so infused by omniscience that it sometimes make me sad to think of all the confidence which I once possessed. But above all, the phrase, “maybe when we’re younger” is a metaphor for shrugging off the nonsense of the grownup world, muting the negativities which experience has bought, and turning back to a more passionate embrace of living in the moment and trusting in your heart. I hate admitting to the youthful sentiment, and it makes me want to travel back in time and kick myself squarely in the nuts for writing such pretentious crap. That being said, however, I’ve also found that the things I write have a tendency to work somewhat for the people and circumstances which they were written to describe, but are more unnervingly accurate when read regarding situations in the future. Somehow I’ve been given the gift of prophecy, but only when it comes to misery to unfold along the timeline of my life. Well, it’s either that, or I’m unable to change the cycle of my behaviors and it’s less prognostication and more living down to my own expectations.

Reading this again, I cannot help but think that I somehow managed to sneak a little wisdom forward. Maybe it’s true that I’m impossible to deal with, and maybe it’s true that I’m more likely to have epic disagreements with the woman with whom I’m completely smitten, but perhaps it isn’t just a matter of being unable to break the cycle of dysfunction. Maybe I really was onto something back then, half my life ago. In this case, it could also be interpreted as a suggestion that we look toward the happier moments of those years ago (which, to be fair, was how it could have been interpreted back then) in order to wash away the stresses of our failures and find within ourselves all the myriad reasons by which we first fell in love. Or it could be that, for some reason, I wanted myself to be more like the principled, unyielding poet/crusader that was determined to bend the world to his authority. It’s like when you’re in the middle of a transcendental hallucinogenic experience, and the universe unfolds before you, serving up its secrets directly to your brain, and you’re determined not to let go of this new level of understanding, so you leave yourself a note for when you’re back to being your regular self tomorrow, diminished and a little wistful at your loss. And it’s then that you look down at that piece of paper, and read the note you’ve left yourself, and wonder what the hell, exactly, you meant when you scribbled down “tunnels though the afterthoughts are the paradox of infidelity. Don’t believe the (illegible) wormholes into consciousness.” I mean, as you are looking at the words, you can remember having known what all of that meant the night before, but like a ten-dollar word, it resides solely upon the tip of your own tongue. And then you go in search of orange juice, and realize that there’s not a single drop in the entire house.

I know from far too many personal experiences that superglue and duct tape can’t fix everything, but I cannot help but love myself for having truly believed that it could. It makes me wonder if I’m a better person than I might have been before, if I’ve stayed the same, or if I’ve somehow sold my soul just to pay the rent. I’d like to believe that I’ve learned some things these past two decades, and that I’m better off for having done so, but I’ve also made so many compromises (not that anyone would believe that if they knew me), put survival ahead of my own self-truth. I guess that I will just have to hope that I know what I am doing (as I am known to reassure those with whom I’m close, from time to time), and that I also knew what I was doing back when I’m pretty sure I didn’t. They say Shakespeare is held in such high regard because he helped fundamentally shape the English language which we speak today. Could it be that I hold the younger me in such high regard because were it not for his choices, both successful and mistaken, I would not be who I am today, and therefore I am indebted to him for my very existence?

I guess the other reason that this poem has stuck with me all these years is that I still have the memory of when I wrote it in the empty spaces of a paper Safeway bag, and that it was the first song which I ever wrote without any assistance. I mean, sure, the melody is love letter to A minor, and I only needed to know the single chord, but it was also the first song that I ever felt comfortable singing, though not in front of other people. Pink Doors O Negative. That was the project that Fed and I had going back then. We recorded a half-dozen songs collaboratively before it became obvious to him that I had no idea what in the hell that I was doing. That wasn’t enough to stop me, but he also knew other people who could actually play their instruments (and keep time), so we just quietly disbanded.

Well, this just got weird. Hopefully tomorrow I will be feeling a little more upbeat. Until then, have a great night!

Family

Wicked World

Maybe it’s something in the air, a melody carried along by the summer breeze, lost except for a fragment brushed along the contours of your ear as it plays by before it disappears forever. Perhaps it’s interest carried over on arguments both won and lost over the course of the last decade. When hopelessness encounters its own justifications, it can be nearly impossible to shake it loose again. I wish that I could say that this was some fleeting shred of melancholy tickling up against the edges of my perceptions, but this has been pulling us down, drawing us in for quite some time now, our failures falling into one another, collapsing into a singularity which we cannot escape. Now, I do know that this feels worse because of everything that’s been going on, but it makes me wonder if we’ll manage to survive it this time. I’m not saying that neither of us has managed to avoid having earned our respective blame, but this seems to be an overwhelming pattern in my life. I thought that I had managed to break the cycle of my failures when Flor and I got together. She was supposed to be the one to save me from myself. She was supposed to be the chosen one. Instead, it seems that I’ve managed to corrupt her, poison her beauty as it seems that only I can do, and ruin my chance for salvation through the simple act of being me.

I may have mentioned, a time or two before, that I’m not the easiest person to be around. I mean, in small doses, I’m clever and charming, seductive and sweet, snarky and sincere, but that’s because I’m careful to only let out certain aspects of my wicked and warped damage at a time, so as not to drive off the handful of people I seem to keep around to keep from going completely ’round the bend, cut off from what little human I can consciously tolerate, but apparently require. Living with me seems to bring out the worst in people, or, rather, allows me the privilege of doing it myself. The person who most everybody knows is just a fiction that I’ve lived with since I discovered that it made my life significantly simpler, but even I can’t keep the act up every hour of every day. I need a large quantity of down time before I can put on the mask again, and when I walk in through my front door, the first thing that I do is tear away the pretense and the happiness before it suffocates me. I am mostly content to live a sedentary life, punctuated with random meaningful events, but the rest of the time, I think that I would prefer the company of no one but myself. You know, I really thought that I could do it this time. That by ignoring all the signals which had informed me that the woman who was to be my wife would be woefully ill-equipped to help me destroy myself, and therefore exactly the person who I had to make sure was in my life.

And yet it seems that I cannot stand happiness. It makes me feel cut off from myself. I’ve never learned to let things go, and I have to be right, no matter the cost. It isn’t important to me that time will usually vindicate me, I have to win the argument. Instead of letting my wife pull me up out of the quagmire of the life I seem to have been destined for, I seem to have only torn her down, ripped her apart bit by bit, and shaped her into not only the perfect nemesis, but molded her into a bitter image of myself (which may seem redundant to the few people who have known me since before I learned to hide myself behind the act that I’ve been living for almost the entirety of my adult life). She deserves someone who will build her up, be there for her when she needs someone, and never be a burden around her neck. I have asked her almost weekly for the past nine years if she has faith in me, and every time she answers yes, it takes her a little longer, and she’s less able to contain her disbelief. I think that she only gave me her blessing to embark on this crusade because she knew that I would either make it happen, or I’d wind up worse off for having tried and failed, at which point she could cut her losses and be rid of me forever.

Of course, I’m only able to see what I want to see, read the narrative which I am capable of understanding. You see, it’s easier for me if I can say that we’re arch-nemeses, so that when she finally tires of my bullshit, I can nurture enmity in the place where fondness and love once dwelled to cover for the fact that once again I have become irrevocably broken by my inability to do what must be done, to manage to get the important things done right. I would die for her one thousand times without a moment’s hesitation, or David, or my grandchildren, or even my daughter, who is so much like me that it still confuses me how we aren’t genetically connected, but I cannot bring myself to live for them. Sure, I’ve made an effort, though some would say too little, too late. I just find that I cannot be the person who I would like to be. If I was a better man, I might pack up and leave here in the middle of the night, cut my ties and let those I love begin the process of getting over having known me. I’ve always been far better in theory than in practice, and as a cautionary tale, I’d probably even make a better father. I guess the reason that I haven’t boils down to cowardice, and the hope that maybe I can get it right in time.

I guess that we’ll find out.

Exploring the Universe through Snark

Translate »