I only know what I’ve seen and read, so I can only write that. None of it is that specific. I’m not that good. My friend told me I was self-absorbed. People like me but don’t know how to say it. I spit charisma from the tongue of my brain. There was never any woman I wanted that I didn’t have. I lost them all eventually, but I lose lots of things.
Of course I hate myself. You understand why. It’s not really my fault. I watched my father beat my mother. I swore never to raise my fist. The word irony was invented for the fact I was arrested for assaulting Linda. She lied. She wasn’t a liar normally. What happened was really not my fault.
The drugs made her different. The drugs made her sexual. The drugs helped her talk. And more than anything I liked talking to her. I sort of liked fucking her too. I’m a writer because it’s all I know how to do well. Actually, that’s not true. I like the way it sounded when I said it.
My credit is terrible and most of the time I smell bad. I scare my mother. I’ve never broken a bone and I didn’t get stitches until I was 41. Long story. Okay, I’ll tell you. It was 3 a.m. and 22 degrees. This isn’t common in Austin. I was drunk. That was common everywhere. I couldn’t get my key to work. I wrapped my jacket around my hand and put it through the window. I forgot to be careful pulling back. I saw the pink meat under my skin. The blood was a rhythmic hydrant. Then the key worked. An hour later I was puddled on the floor and there was a violent knocking at my door. The police.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Your neighbor called. He heard the glass break.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“The ambulance is on the way.
They stapled my arm shut. The guy with the staple gun said, “This is going to hurt.” I didn’t feel a thing. I spent the next two days in withdrawal, strapped to a hospital bed and hallucinating. I guess they were afraid of what I might do. The straps tore out two staples. I saw my mom and her twin sister at the foot of my bed. I’m wasn’t sure if I was still in Texas.
Problems are difficult to solve, or they wouldn’t be problematic.
Everything is so simple if you don’t make it difficult. Do I want to feel better or do I want to hurt less? Those are the questions, right? And if you think the answers are obvious, you haven’t really thought about it. Or you’re in a lot of pain.
God made me pretty enough I suppose, but I ruined that with things you can ingest, and perhaps falling after I ingested them. I have scars you wouldn’t believe I survived if you didn’t notice me also breathing.
I don’t want to be dead. I want to live forever. I used to pray when I believed in God. It was inflicted in me like it is in most people, when you’re young and your questions don’t matter yet. I used to pray every night. It was an obsession, and it took forever. For one hour every night I asked the nothing to do for me what no one else seemed able to do. At eight, I first understood that everyone dies, and I prayed. At ten, I realized that includes me, and I stopped.
We were talking about lovers. She’s happy with hers. I’ve been juggling. Of course, there is a her. Isn’t there always? You’d like to know Linda. Beautiful, younger, and smart. Who gives a fuck about the Oxford comma? She did. She was the only person I let edit me. She taught me about where to put a period when you use parentheses. (Like here.) She had a great ass that she didn’t like. I guess no girl likes her body.
My vocabulary is simple and short. I wish I had the eloquence for something deeper. I wish I could write like F. Scott Fitzgerald, but I still think this story should be told. I’m base and that can’t change. I can’t articulate well the immensity. Should I use a mountain? The universe? I guess you can recognize those as big.
I’ve written this story in my head a million times. I’ve retracted my belief systems a million more. The only moment is now. The last is forgotten and the next is a guess. How does a stereotype become a stereotype? It’s usually true.
Life is a miracle. Simple and short. We all get hurt. Somehow, we all feel a semblance of love. I watch animal shows on TV and liken the creatures to people I know. I was wrong to think about it differently.
I speak in public, and people look bothered sometimes, but the driver let me on the bus for free today. Life is incredible and different from itself.
I had an idea. I lost it. I lose lots of things. I lose them lots of times. I lost the things that matter. I’ve lost this story.
The idea of a thing. If anyone cares. If anyone matters. If anyone can put three words together and think about them. It’s rare, but it happens. You love how many times? How many that matter? What was her name? What was his? Will you die knowing that name? I will die thinking of Linda.