I’m not big on breakfast.

I have a pet rat named Molly.  She used to have a friend named Mouse because I had this problem where when I got all googly over them at pet stores I kept calling them Mouses and feeling stupid.

Anyway, around the time that I started to remember to call them rats, Mouse died.  If that was her purpose in life, she definitely fulfilled it.  That and to singlehandedly eat a gallon of Cheerios.  She was ambitious.

Today I spilled out the contents of my art cabinet and asked Matt what I should draw.  I don’t think, at the time, that he realized I can’t really draw and mostly planned on making a mess and probably ruining the carpet — but he answered anyway.

He told me to draw Molly.

So I did.

Molly would have said “Hi” but she was too busy searching for Cheerios and trying to fit the entire contents of her cage into her hidey hole.

The decisions you make when you’re going to live forever.

It’s tough knowing you’re going to live forever.

Even though you no longer have to worry about that eventual “not being” thing — at some point you have to pause and think about the fact that you’ve still only got one body.  You’re going to need to make that last you — you know — eternally.

So while you aren’t out writing obituaries, or fantasizing over the eulogies your family members will give through heaving sobs, you are considering how long forever can conceivably last for a drinker, for a smoker.

The answer seems a little short of that “eternity” marker, quite frankly.  The answer I come to seems to imply that even living forever has a caveat for bodily abuse.

Now, I can’t remember when I decided that I was probably never going to die — but for as long as I can remember, I’ve had a serious issue with parsing the end of being.  The panic and confusion it inspires left me, at some point, with only one option — and that was just…

… you know…

… not to die.

And all was well with that, until the other day — where I started to worry about how I was going to live forever if I was broken.  Suddenly that end of being thing was creeping back into my fragile little mind, and I realized I was going to have to make a sacrifice to get myself back in the happy green of my previous delusion.

I looked in the mirror and thought about how I was supposed to be in some prime — how it appeared I had skipped it entirely.  Every look in my reflection just shining back the gloom of mortality, the wasted shadow of youth.

I’m not sure that stubbing my last cigarette, or drinking my last solitary bottle of wine will reverse these physical manisfestations — but they seem to stem the encroaching doubts of my longevity that were beginning to seed and root with such unwelcome terror in my every thought…

… and I suppose that’s enough for now.

 

Nobody

Decided I should write something.  Anything.  Oh shush.  It’s not about you, does it matter, really?

(Wouldn’t you want a nicer song anyhow?)

Scratch attached.

Nobody

Just Words

I’m not sure if it’s ever fair to call time wasted. Experiences can have conclusions that we aren’t happy with, but it’s a bit of a cruel cop out to write over our happy moments with a bright red permanent marker just because we didn’t do a great job with the ending.

I didn’t learn anything particularly about myself from our correspondence other than that I find the need to break others down even more confusing than I used to. I find that I am less confused as to why I don’t have many specifically close friends, and why it appears that so many other people do.

The thing is, they don’t really. They label all sorts of relationships “friendships”. I keep reading things like, “he wasn’t well liked, even by his friends.”

And therein lies my problem. I don’t understand having friends that don’t like you. Or friends that you don’t like. Friends that you don’t talk to. Friends you never see.

I’ve met a lot of people, and there are often stories I like to relate about people that I used to know. There is certainly a difference between these people I knew (and even some that I know) and friends, and I don’t even think that the differentiation is either very confusing or at all insulting.

It’s just a matter of definition. A hasty catch-all that is slowly but surely being sucked dry and devoid of meaning isn’t really what I want that word to become.

But, I digress. You were never my friend. We wrote on your terms and with your limitations, even though I was the person who had solicited the attention. You seemed to try to misunderstand, and to disagree though you admitted you were actually quite ignorant of both what I spoke of, and the words I used to describe it.

I suppose that my type of friendship would not be the type to suit you, you’re right. Something more than the most cursory use of the word.