My cult-delivered front porch friend, The Jehovess, has gone away. She snail-mailed me sometime in January, I think, about how uncomfortable my residence was when I wasn’t here. Apparently, my father would burst forth from the Christmas lights-lit trailer, raising his arms (no doubt with the beer can still in one hand):
“Praise Jehovah! Autumn’s not here! Praise Jehovah, you temple dwellin’ sons of bitches, you!”
The moment I picked up their special version of the Bible and dropped it into the trash, he’d snatched the barrel and held it at arm’s length, rushing it to the bigger trash can in the kitchen. And now that I think about it, I bet he’s one of the reasons why she was always asking to meet somewhere in public. Like salvation and happy meals, kinda deal. One plastic booth, one non-existant supreme being watching my every move and a six inch on wheat, if you’re tailoring the scenario to fit my willed-taste.
I fucking hate vegetables. And wheat bread. But anyway: a moment of silence, for The Jehovess. She was very nice.
I can’t stop thinking that if I’d only been there or, she, been here, then Crymson_st4r wouldn’t have been pulled over and found to be in possession of marijuana and paraphanelia. It just sounds like one of those incidents that might have been avoided, had Super Prude arrived to object to anything and everything. If I’d just kept jerking her chain, she may not have completely fallen down over the wrong side of that line.
Every few months, sometimes 12 or so apart, I get the letter. Or telephone call. Or instant message, insisting we do what? That’s right – try again. And each time, I sit back and go over the same thought progressions, touring through “she only gets this way when nothing’s working out”, making a pit stop at “but isn’t that the best time to start over” and soaring back down the freeway of “it doesn’t matter because there’s no way to make it happen”. That’s what a lot of moving forward is, isn’t it? It’s the only way you know; it’s default. Old times are always sweeter than the new ones, which is why I’m leaning heavy onto this theory, for now.
It seems like whenever anyone approaches me, the appropriate opening line is, “What’s wrong?” Something always brings them to my hole in the tree, especially now that the weather’s warming up and they suspect I’ll be stirring more often. Mad props to Gay Dan, who came rapping on the trunk all goddamn winter long, uninvited and bouncy enough to make you want to smash his Armani frames. Humph. Parading around in my room while I was trying to sleep. Chirping about stupid things while I sat up on the mattress and squinted. So much drama involving a certainly evil-deemed minority that I’ll never truly understand.
Yes, Camden_truth’s life is a soap opera today. He says that if his parents disown him, he may take shelter in my basement, which is riddled with shelves and shelves of canned goods that were very cheap after my father’s coupon spree/obsession. He can sleep next to the hundred containers of clam chowder and be one more addition to this haunted house: a flaming queer lurking downstairs, to scare more straight males than a zombie ever could.
Most players never make it past the twins, anyway.
While cruising Wal-Mart for a hula-hoop, I walked past the wife of the trash who came to our house late one night to fight with my father. She recognized who was glaring at her, and since it has literally been years upon years, I suspect she was in the pickup that night, sitting in the dark. Her eyes immediately averted. She bowed her head. She was practically running in the opposite direction from someone a rough 10 years younger. I went home and hula-hooped, but I can’t say that I forgot about it.
Christopher’s doing pretty well. Since the accident, the formerly lanky kid has packed on 30+ pounds, though, and is still gorging. I know it’s not a main concern, but it’s one that hits personally and so I’ve asked my parents to stop buying bread and ice cream for a while. It doesn’t work; this morning, he was piling bacon and mayo onto a sandwich and chugging strawberry milk. He pats his pregnant-looking stomach like it’s something to be proud of.
“I envy Roy’s,” he says in the presence of his fat friend responsible for the car wreck.
Yeah, it’s a little funny. But it isn’t going to be, and neither is that sinister treadmill sitting in the other room.
The newest exams reveal that the inflamed heart was false and just a really badly taken x-ray. Remaining bad news is that the hip deformity that ran on my mother’s side and traditionally hit “the girls” every generation down, was passed onto Chris and he will need it replaced in the future. I’m regularly pressing down on his back, trying to get cracks out of it unprofessionally because our insurance only covered so many chiropractic visits. Wonder if the hip and the back pain are connected.
I just got a spam message: (from) Makeyaweeniea (subject) pumping pole of penile power
It’s going on 9, and I’m going to cut this short before we talk about me. I’m not subject matter. At best, some cryptic cry from a sealed room. Words and thoughts that don’t belong here, but usually are.
A hemisphere in each eye, but they don’t hurt, anymore. The weight of this planet adds character. Some days it’s just fine. Even if not today. Some days it’s just fine. Lyrical bookends, keep me steady. Cause I can’t, right now.
It’s the anniversary of a girl from the junior high who’d come in during lunch and speak with my mom in the library. This is her day. This is the day they went in to wake her up for school and saw she’d blown her head off.
Mom always remembers. She went to buy a rose for her grave, but came home and handed it to me, instead. It felt like a telegram to please not die. I was staring, lost in a large chair. Salty cheeks. Hand on my forehead,
“You’ve been sick for a while. This isn’t good.”
I caught that airborne disease where you’re heartbroken because you can’t fathom anything you’d enjoy doing, and your eyes leak before drying up really tight. The virus only wakes every few days, for a few hours at a time.
Grab the fuckin’ aspirin, right? Pour some orange juice. Then I’m good to go.
Ladeeda, ba-dumbum bum-
NO HOPE! FUCK! NO HOPE AT ALL AND PAIN PAIN PAIN!
Ladeeda, ba-dumbbum bum-
The way I see it, some people’s jaws click when they eat. My quirk is unpredictable breaking down that flushes out my eyes and leaves no trace. I think it’s less annoying than my jaw making some stupid noise while other people are trying to dine.
I want to get spun in my words until the chemical makeup splits off and mixes with the language like a sick chromosome experiment. Pour me into those little bottles that are always reserved for rice art, and ask the people who were nice to me, if they’d wear them.
I’d feel better.
Houston, I sent several e-mails and left a voice message on your machine. I have a problem.