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[You're getting carried away, feeling sorry for yourself]
Life has a weird way of showing you how to go about it. I'll admit, obviously, none of us have owners manuals, there's not a tutorial or anything, but things seem to click into place every time you let go and let it happen.
I don't know if this is universal. The only thing I can say is I've gone through one of the toughest times I've ever had to deal with, from petty thievery and computer loss, to a decision that changed my physical and emotional health in the near and distant future, respectively, but I know that what I know is basically nothing. I've been surrounded by people my entire life who keep forgetting that I'm at least two years younger than I am. I've always bucked up, chinned up, everything they tell you to do, but I have to wonder, do any of us have any idea what we'll come up against tomorrow? I doubt it.
I know that I drink every night to chase away my thoughts, the ones I'm too worried will change the status quo. I know that this is not the same thing my father did when he drank, because I know that I don't know real demons.
Drink up, baby, stay up all night
with the things you could do
you won't
but you might
No, my assault of the "human condition" is much more basic: It's a waste of potential. It's working all day and using that as an excuse to relax with a beer. Nothing wrong with that, sure, but for someone who knows better, who realizes it runs in my veins as the most powerful opiate ... well, that's just negligence, isn't it? Especially when we're talking about Grade A youth, right? Right?
I know. There's not going to be an answer. That's the other thing I've started to understand. I don't even care. I'll just crack another beer and tell you about this
Stupid memory of me in the temp house on White Lake Dr., where the termites ate our treehouses even as we made them, where I lived in the laundry room/dining room because my sister came home, she came back into the fold and who could deny her a room? where I was afraid of werewolves attacking me, Mom made chop suey for dinner one night. This was a good meal, with all the proper nutrients, but it was one of the five dinners we had eaten for at least a year. That night, my mom pressed the lid on the pan while it simmered for the last time. The pot was going beyond the clearing, it was caput. So when she finally realized the lid wasn't coming off the pan, we took it into the garage, where we all watched as Ben hit it with a hammer to try to jam the lock loose. When it was finally obvious that it wasn't going to happen, we all laughed so hard.
"Well, we're just going to have to go out," Mom said.
For people that only eat chipped beef on toast and chop suey every night, that sounded like a dream. We ate like kings that night.
For my mom, chopped suey made from fresh and frozen veggies, and all that, meant five dollars. But she must have found the change for at least seven more, for all of us, for that one night we ate fast food. I know that now even as I scrounge for change in the deepest recesses of every bag to get on the train. No more leaving $5 in a coat to find next winter. Can't afford it.
There's no point to all of this... it's just an experience, a memory tacked together on the barest of foundations. I guess on some level it means:
I wish I could rake leaves.
I hope I have time to ring the bell again.
I hope I make it through my childish nonsense.
But?
I doubt it.
People that you've been before
that you don't want around anymore
they push and shove
and won't bend to your will
[I'll keep them still]
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