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Confessions of a Fuck Up Artist
Jan. 13th, 2015 12:39 amSince I'm no Elmore Leonard I guess it's safe to start with the weather. Drove home through the kind of fog that sweeps down those hills on which graveyards and haunted manors rest. Down through the side streets with the trees and power lines half-erased against the roiling white, as if the whole world was the opening line to a poem that had yet to find the right words.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked her the night before last. We laid in bed talking, our faces lit the blue glow of the laptop's monitor across the room. I had been telling her things because the bed of lovers captures those harsh truths that can evade even the sternest of confessionals and interrogation rooms.
She didn't 'want' me to say anything. She wanted me to think instead. About how at times I carry something heavier than guilt and uglier than grudge - the Victim's Badge. I wear it well. Better than most, truth be told. I wear it funny, I wear it deep and in the right light you might see the gleam of empathy shine off it. But the Victim's Badge works opposite of most badges, it doesn't grant you access into the scene of a crime but rather locks you inside it.
And the crime scene I had locked myself into belonged to fresh misdemeanors at best and tragedies long since past at worst.
It keeps me from seeing the friends in people I've known for awhile now and the opportunities waiting outside my comfort zone. If more men spent more effort getting out of that zone instead of the friend one, they might find themselves a little happier she mused.
Stepped out of the car and instead of mechanically walking down to the Oakhurst mart from which I had parked two blocks away from, I sat on the hood of the car watching the fog that was where the sky should have been.
I wanted a cigarette and had one on me but told myself no. I wanted a Little Debbie, I wanted a Jamie on the rocks, I wanted Internet porn shot through a Kenneth Anger filter, I wanted a grimorie of bounded silver age comic books, I wanted to fire up a bowl of weapon's grade skunk, I wanted to shave my balls since my scalp was shaved already so I could run away to a Buddhist monastery and learn how to not think about wanting things.
I wanted her back and if you couldn't see that coming then you must be looking through a thicker mist than the one I sat in today.
But it wasn't about what I wanted, it was about what I had and that was the chance to lose the Victim's Badge. I hopped off the hood of the car, smiled to myself with those lips that could still feel her kiss and clear of mind walked straight into the fog.
"What do you want me to say?" I asked her the night before last. We laid in bed talking, our faces lit the blue glow of the laptop's monitor across the room. I had been telling her things because the bed of lovers captures those harsh truths that can evade even the sternest of confessionals and interrogation rooms.
She didn't 'want' me to say anything. She wanted me to think instead. About how at times I carry something heavier than guilt and uglier than grudge - the Victim's Badge. I wear it well. Better than most, truth be told. I wear it funny, I wear it deep and in the right light you might see the gleam of empathy shine off it. But the Victim's Badge works opposite of most badges, it doesn't grant you access into the scene of a crime but rather locks you inside it.
And the crime scene I had locked myself into belonged to fresh misdemeanors at best and tragedies long since past at worst.
It keeps me from seeing the friends in people I've known for awhile now and the opportunities waiting outside my comfort zone. If more men spent more effort getting out of that zone instead of the friend one, they might find themselves a little happier she mused.
Stepped out of the car and instead of mechanically walking down to the Oakhurst mart from which I had parked two blocks away from, I sat on the hood of the car watching the fog that was where the sky should have been.
I wanted a cigarette and had one on me but told myself no. I wanted a Little Debbie, I wanted a Jamie on the rocks, I wanted Internet porn shot through a Kenneth Anger filter, I wanted a grimorie of bounded silver age comic books, I wanted to fire up a bowl of weapon's grade skunk, I wanted to shave my balls since my scalp was shaved already so I could run away to a Buddhist monastery and learn how to not think about wanting things.
I wanted her back and if you couldn't see that coming then you must be looking through a thicker mist than the one I sat in today.
But it wasn't about what I wanted, it was about what I had and that was the chance to lose the Victim's Badge. I hopped off the hood of the car, smiled to myself with those lips that could still feel her kiss and clear of mind walked straight into the fog.