It's One of Those Times When Less is More

More of what remains to be seen, but in rare form, I don't know wtf this is going. But, I am loaded up with pics acquired from a blog search of "wtf." May Sarah Lee be with us on this, our epic, imaginary journey down memory lane.

Do you remember that time we dressed in our best leathers and pink fuzzies and walked all around town with vibrators in our asses? You held the remote to mine and I held the remote to yours and we took a Shortbus all over town in our skivvies. Those were good times. I loved you back then.

The romance was hot and we swam naked and fucked and slept in hammocks and hardly regretted not remembering it all, because those hang overs peskily reminded us that the night before involved cattle prodding while drunk driving and taking that stolen pregnancy test in the grocery store bathroom. Ah. Good times.

Wtf have you been since you dumped me pregnant? That was so hot. My favorite part was when the woman that you were really in love with all of a sudden showed up in my dream and I bitch-slapped her like you know I just go around doing all the time when I'm on the Jerry Springer Family Fun Hour and my hand went right through her face and hurt for several days after. If it all weren't so lucid, I'd bottle it up in a microscopic bug pack and send it your way, where ever you are, to bite you in the ass. Our son's fine, btw.

For many years we never spoke of you. Someone felt threatened by that, but I encouraged the truth to be revealed, confident that actions spoke louder than blood. I was right though all of the curiosities are directed at me still, because he knows. He likes marshmallows and I just ate one. I'm much fatter now. My thyroid.

Do you remember when you wrecked my best friend's motorcycle when she was out of town, but allowed you to take her motor cycle to work while she was gone? What ever happened with all that? I remember how I pasted taro root over your arm wounds, fed you tea and you wore that nighty and we stayed drunk and holed up for a week solid. You were my captive. Who wouldn't love that? And Schlitz Malt Liquor.

You always were a better drunk than me. Do I envy your unflailing march toward death? Is my conscience a hindrance, my beloved sobriety a curse? Tonight I watched Ned Flanders's deepest despair involve his son's wearing a Buttholiohole Surfers tee and P got it and laughed. He's smart. He gets everything.

On his first birthday I was hungover, but not nearly like I had been from my thirtieth birthday party, the day after which I hit my all time low. After I blacked out, M put P in bed with me like always so he could nurse in the night and he got so drunk that I thought he was permanently damaged, but did not take him to the hospital, hoping it would pass. It did. I still drank a few more months until that sticky May birthday party when all of the people were around me were drinking, and some tiny tiny metamoment occurred, and I realized without seeking it whatsoever that the scene around me in that neighborhood where we had to clean the needles out of the yard and that guy stopped and asked M if he would do him a solid and just hold his gun for him for a sec, that not one single thing was ever going to be any better than that in my life if I continued to drink. And my bottom was high, I hear.

Oh, there's more you'll never read. As M and I joke, even as we both know of my eternal ambivalence, you are missin' out on all this. We're broke as shit. We're teetering on the edge of breaking up every week and though he stays stoned and hides beer bottles, in trash bags behind that old van I can't find the title to so I can have it hauled off that I discover on the way to show N the peacocks and guinea hens that we've been living next door to for two years for the first time, he stays.

Oh sure, I've given him every reason to leave as has he given me... and I still may, but well, I don't know. There wasn't a point to that sentence. I'm pretty sure you thought you were a sicker fucker than me or at least you said that. Or maybe that's like that line, "It's not you; it's me." I mean, look at the picture I just posted for instance. Look at the all the pot I'm not smoking. Look at all the KoolAid™ I'm drinking to pay minivan and insurance payments, so that I can pollute the air our son breathes. Public schools and vaccinations are part of the indoctrination of a society that makes fat cats fatter and couldn't survive without guns holding it all tightly tightly in place.

But, if you were here right now, I would probably still want to suck your cock and imagine that our pain is a glue that binds us to each other, that makes transcending the physical possible, while we sneak into Willie Nelson's birthday party barefoot needing nothing in our pockets, but that nasty-ass rolling tobacco (I quit by the way) and a rolling paper or two. How can I still regret your absence? How can I still miss your smile- though I barely remember it? How can I think there was anything to miss in any of that? Do I still have some of the same mentalities I did then?

I have not even one single ittty bitttty picture of you to remember you by. I'd never had a cell phone back then, much less a digital camera. I cannot show our son how beautiful you were. And, worse yet, neither can you. But, I'll do you a favor. I'll leave you alone psychically. I'll quit missing you and forgiving you in my dreams. I'll remember you like this picture here with pink shit spread all over your dick wishing I would lick that shit off you and without apology I will say, "Not a chance in hell." And, you would say, "Oh no's! Did you just say the h e double hockeysticks word?" And, I would think to say, "You stupid piece of shit," except I don't talk like that. I never did.

Where's the zinger? A post with a picture like this has to have a point, has to have some higher purpose that makes such an image justifiable. I mean, you can't even read this at work because there are pornographic images right there for all the ladies in accounting walking by to see.

You probably don't have a job anyway. That can't be my zinger. That's not even a cut down. Plus, you probably do have a job.

Well, never mind. I'm going to go snuggle with my little Genius. He'll be ten next month- though he keeps insisting that it is incorrect not to count the nine months he spent en utero. I tell him that though he is right and all the rest of society is wrong, there are advantages to playing by the rules. Such as, did you know that a ten year birthday is way specialler than an eleven year birthday party? And, when he asked me who my favorite person in the whole world was yesterday, I said it was him and he said he was going to tell his little brother, and I said, "No, no, no, no! If you do that, you won't be my favorite person in the whole world anymore." And, he said, "I'm going to tell N to come ask you the same question and ask him what you said. But, I'm going to wait until you have forgotten this conversation to do it."

I won't.

Oh, I've got to post this song every few months here: