One to two nights. One to two nights a week is reasonable, but every night for the last two weeks; blacking out face down? There’s a problem there, and obviously it’s a cry for help. My brain cells are finite, and my vocabulary has dwindled. I don’t want two hundred and fifty hangovers a year. I don’t want to live so easily. My stress is being taken from me and I can’t create unless I’m stressed. My vocabulary is regressive. What the heck was it that I was doing before that kept me afloat?! I’ve lost plenty of things since the year began, but the most heart-wrenching thing to lose was my mind.
Tag Archives: anger
Oh sweet, sweet April. Month of the resurrection. Symbolizing that succulent eternal life, with your neon green grass and birds singing sweet jazz, you are really something. Oh April, you’ve probably got a guy who does your taxes! But why are you going around breaking everyone’s hearts? You’re sick! You’re like a little girl with anti-gravitational locks licking lollipops and lighting fires in a valentine’s day card factory. Let the people see the real red of fluffy hearts with scalpel precision performed randomly in the back alley of the dive bar your step-uncle Pete, with the lazy eye and Beefeater Gin tattoo as a trampstamp he got on a very bad night involving counterfeit and/or well tequila, is that your philosophy?!!? No? Oh… well… what’s the deal?
Everywhere I go, everyone’s hearts are breaking and cellphone minutes are used in 8 minute intervals and voicemail inboxes get filled with wet messages; it tears me up inside. I’m not one for the sensitive side of things, but when my friends are out there on the field getting shot and wounded because April got bored, you bet your sweet ass I’m going to be fired up like a pro baseball player on “performance enhancers.” So here I am in the ER working triple overtime, eating vending machine dinners, healing the sick, wounded, and the heartbroken, only to finally ask myself, “wat is yo damn problem, April? Girl, you best drive in a schoolzone speed befo I kick yo dang teef in. You eva digest a toof befo!?”
This has been a very sad month for my loved ones, but some are finding solstice in the bottom of a pint-glass, shishkebabs, and Tekken 6, which was released on 10/27 and critics say is, “the best way to watch a 70 year old man kill a panda by kicking him in the d*ck, and not on YouTube.” No that wasn’t a plug, more like a, “hang in there guys, if you can still laugh and/or chuckle, you can still live. And if you can still live, you can still unnecessarily smuggle jello shots into inappropriate settings… like a Bed Bath and Beyond, or a 24-hour Kinko’s with a vengeful and exposing picture you want to make 600 copies of and a list of all the local community colleges tucked in your back pocket. What am I talking about? I’m talking about you putting on a nice pair of shoes, and throwing down with April.
I was 23 when it happened. “Fell in love,” as most would say. Don’t worry, I’m well aware that I’m too young to fall in love, even younger to think about marriage. Yet, every now and then you hear of a story that starts out like this and that story, til this day, hasn’t finished, and perhaps I was coerced into believing it could happen to me through hearsay. And it did. She proposed to me during my vacation to Chicago, on a frigid horse-carriage ride through the South Loop. I said yes, kissed her, and ended up fondling each other for the duration of the ride across Michigan Ave. Beneath the blankets.
Two seraphically blessed months later, she passed away. I never got the chance to go through the whole wedding ceremony, never got the chance to hate my step-parents, never even got a chance to fight so bad, one of us would scream, “I want a divorce!” She just packed, and caught the next flight to St. Peter’s gate.
I didn’t feel so surprised, I felt like how I had my coffee. Unsweetened, no cream, and overcharged. I kept the ring she gave me, Juicy Coutour was etched on it. No she wasn’t so perfect, we seldom are, but her alchemy fit mine just enough to make fire. Except the departure was not as warm. Her vitality, her memory, her sweetness, her little hidden mole, stripped by the inevitably sour course of life. Was I still too young to have fallen in love, or thought about marriage? Or was she too young to die? I feel her with me, in everything I do, and it’s terrible. It’s not as sweet as they make it seem in the movies.