#213

henry rollins said that if you hate"the man" or your parents, revenge was in becoming better. earn more, he said. live longer. be more educated.

vengeful plan of action:
there's a Ph.D. on my wall. check.
their time's ticking down and i'm healthier than ever. check.
my bank statement shows another six figures every year.

ah, i feel so fulfilled! i have beaten them! squashed the man!

but, just in case, there's always fire ants.

#212

oh, right, so i'm supposed to thank you for the flowers even though i never asked for them. i never said i was grateful.
beet-red, open-mouthed, wild-eyed. it's not that becoming. guess i wasn't supposed to tell you that. especially during an argument.
is it still an argument if it's one-sided?
pieces of your indignant tirade hit me. something about sacrifice. something about caring or not caring.
my stomach hurts. i really shouldn't have eaten that burger for lunch and i say so.
you look at me in disbelief.
you're saying something about being the best boyfriend in the world. i blink once. guess life's not fair, huh?

#211

i talk about you from time to time. don't worry, i don't use your name. and even if i did, no one here knows who you are.
but, like most things, that was your choice too.
at first i was hurt; it confused me that you got bored. we were spontaneous and brilliant together. you brought words out of me that i never knew i had. for awhile, i thought i showed you just how much love could be real for you.
now i get it. you thrive on instability- you create mistakes and insecurities, and i saw too much in you that was strong and complete and good, and that... well, that wouldn't fit with your constant need for misery.
you have found nothing. exactly what you are looking for. you just don't know it yet.

#210

we slept to an hour that is usually considered late, like we slept in, you know what i mean, but he didn't comment on it or apologize for seeming lazy. the sun was up and high, trying different angles from the drawn blinds like a peeping tom.
i sat next to him, eating our apple jacks, and staring at my still-winter-white legs, flexing and stretching my muscles, and he puts an old Cash record on. i feel like a dreamer again- planning for the next stage of life, hoping for the best and ticking off mental laundry lists of everything beautiful coming in big numbers; ignoring the firm reality of input vs output.
today, for now, we are staying here, in a single moment.

#209 (compliments to w. whitman)

she pauses for moment beside the last picture in the hall, placing a trembling hand on the glass. a crooked-lipped boy grows from infancy to adulthood in the space between the foyer and the den.
"A child said 'What is the grass?' fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he."
she knows that all things begin because they are meant to end.
"I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps."
there is no need to look. every smile is memorized, the cowlicked hair (so obvious no matter the style), the creases of every ironed shirt etched into her mind.
"All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier."

seventyone

He noticed that her dress was only slightly darker than the wine, and the corner of her eyes sparkled like the glass. And they shared stories, but ones that people tell when they want to be only slightly more vulnerable than they would be with someone they met on the train to work. They didn't notice that they were taking turns trying to surreptitiously make contact with hands on the table, but they both noticed the resulting awkwardness. And there was laughing and stolen glances and a magic trick in which a cloth napkin hid the transmutation of a fork into three grapes.

And this became a story he told his grandchildren, but not for any of the reasons he expected.

#208

the venue was smoky, but not from cigarettes. machines spewed faux smoke to keep up appearances. blue and purple and green lights faded and changed and adjusted with the mood of the music. behind the fog was all eyeliner and collarbones and legs. deep voices laughed louder as the night wore on; the sloppy laughter of red stripe and pbr. of whiskey and coke.
the singer wasn't great, but the songs were, and by this point no one cared either way. she looked older than she was, hollowed cheeks and tired eyes, hidden under layers of L'Oreal.
and everywhere, the fake rhetoric of a generation based in hyperbole and disenchantment.