The tarp is that bright blue color you see used for tents and things, complete with a little hole at each corner for the rope and stakes to connect. It looks like it’s covering up a bunch of tractors or lawn mowers, or something. And it’s old. I have kept it this way because it’s embarrassing and disappoints other people. You can see as soon as I lift it from one end, why I guard it with my life.
I still worry about it, sometimes. Mostly because the buzzing snap up there concerns me. I have no idea… how it worked, or much of what’s left, anymore.
For a few years now, I’ve wondered what would be required in order for me to write about things I’ll be dammed if I write about. Do you ever keep something silent if the topic has been done before with plenty of exploitations and assumptions that you A) would rather not have attached to your identity and B) is an unsolved dilemma of sorts that would only be a seeming favor handed out at your pity party?
Throughout my life, I have had several encounters with people who decided that they would like to have been closer to me, for whatever reasons. That’s normal – that’s part of living and operating as a human being. The thing is, is that sometimes having someone else know you involves sharing the kind of back story that results in, “Eureka!” on their end. For me, there are few things worse than having seen that person watch you for a while and then feeling a part of the impact you’ve just had on them because you got done telling them something that hurts very much.
I was raised with expert training on how to leave marks, and my injection into other people’s lives has resulted in scarring. And that’s the truth.
The only thing I have ever seen sharing do, is make swell reason for the kinds of things that routinely ended up happening to people who asked for tragedy. Sometime around the mid-90’s, I got familiar with the pattern and told each new person I was very sorry ahead of time, but that I had no idea how long knowing me would be a positive thing. Then I advised them to pay me little mind.
No one will listen to me, and Everybody listens to me.
Can I see some form of ID to know which bracelet you need?
The one sitting way at the top? You might have to step to the side and look around the stupid disco ball thing, in order to see – yeah, up there where no one else sits. She owns this place.
If you’re reading this, you’re dancing for her.