Miserable is a good word to describe how I feel. It’s not your fault I feel that way. I was the one who subjected myself to it. It was one of those things I had to convince myself to do. I convinced myself it would be a good idea. Oh, it will be just like the good old days, I told myself. We’ll pick up right where we left off – it will be amazing, it really will. But it was torture. Ten months is a long time. I was the only person in the room dumb enough to think things can go back to normal. It was like smashing a vase. We all just looked at the pieces and tried to remember what went where.
Remember when this went together?
Remember when that went together?
Because why would you take all that time to glue a busted up vase back together, when you can just get a newer, less complicated vase? Sure, the broken vase will have character, but you can’t put any water into it. It won’t hold anything. It will just leak, and nothing you put in there will live - it'll just wither up and die. No one wants that. No one wants this shitty, busted, broken vase. I do. But no one gives a shit about what I want. No one should, because it’s all spilled milk. I’m fucking crying over it. I really am. And everyone in the room is recoiling, with down turned mouths and furrowed brows and their asking, “Why doesn’t he just pour himself a new glass of milk? Why does he have to be such an ass about it?”
Because fuck another glass of milk.
I wanted THAT glass of milk.
That’s when I was happy. I’m not desperate though. I’m too proud – too stubborn. I’m not about to drop to my hands and knees and suck the milk off the floor. I’d be crazy to do that. I would cut my lips. I’ll just stare at it and wait for someone else to clean up my mess because I refuse to be held accountable for any of this.
What am I talking about?
What are you talking about?
I know exactly what I’m talking about. I just need to cover it up with a clever guise, because people who know me, have probably already figured out what it is that I'm talking about. And they’re thinking, “Oh Ian, God, you’re such a mess. What happened to you?” I don’t know. I really don’t. Nothing is where I left it. From socks to people I’m in love with. Not that you can compare the two – but I just want to point out how fucked everything is. I can’t find chords to charge things. Everything around me is dying. The electronics can be brought back to life, which is fortunate, and most people I know probably have a good sixty-seventy years before they go, but the prospect still makes me uneasy. Makes my stomach twist.
Did you know blond is spelled that what when you describe a boy?
And blonde is for when you describe a girl? Fucking German people, right?
Boy I hope somebody laughed at that, but who am I kidding, no one reads this shit. Here’s another one for you.
State governments can fine you for velocity. For when you can’t get away from something fast enough.
And then they ask you why you were going so fast. Does it matter?
“Why were you speeding, sir?”
“Because life is shit, officer.”
“Why were you speeding, sir?”
“Because I hate myself, officer.”
“Why were you speeding, sir?”
“I was hoping to get into a head on collision, officer.”
This is, of course, overdramatic, but – sometimes you feel like this. Maybe. Maybe I need to see a shrink so he can analyze my relationship with my mother. She force-fed me biscotti and eggplant Parmesan growing up doc, fuck, am I gonna die? Is this why I’m so unhappy? Because I gagged on marinara sauce as a youth? Who are you kidding? Who am I kidding? Who are you people? Who decides this shit?
What in the hell is going on?
Really?
Why don’t they tell you the transition into adulthood is going to be like this growing up? Why don’t they warn us about existential crises in the fourth grade? Do they think this shit is funny?
Accountability is a bitch.
Really.
Really. It is.
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