The final chapter ends
Back at my old house in New Jersey, I received a package. From Jimmy, my parents told me. Amazingly enough, he spent his own money to send it. He must have gotten lucky on the slots last weekend.
"It's long and thin," my father said. My dresses...the bastard finally sent back my dresses, I thought. Sure enough, that night when he finally opened it and announced the contents, several dresses were in there, including that olive green Betsey Johnson dress that still had the tags on it. Probably wrinkled by now, but in my possession, so that's all that matters.
But there was something else too. "It's a bear," my dad said, "It's wearing a shirt with the planets on it..."
My joy faded. "That's not a bear, that's a cat. There should be another one too, a white one." He checked the box further. Yes, there was another bear...er, cat. All the clothes I brought for them at Build-a-Bear, those came back too, as did the so-called condo packaging.
I don't know whether it was Jimmy's intention to give me a final fuck you, but it hurt me. Hard. Those stuffed cats were gifts over two separate Christmas seasons. The white cat was dressed in punk clothing (or as punk as possible, being Build-a-Bear isn't exactly aimed toward the Hot Topic crowd) to represent me. It was a present for him for Christmas 2004. The following year came the orange tabby kitty, dressed in surfer clothing, to represent him. They were presents for him. Now they're mine. I don't know whether to have them sent down, put them away, or donate them to a children's hospital. I'm thinking of having them sent down, but I don't know how much it will hurt to look at them.
Yeah, over a year later, it still hurts.
It's thunder and lightning outside. I want to go out for a drink. I want to prove to myself I'm better off being single.
"It's long and thin," my father said. My dresses...the bastard finally sent back my dresses, I thought. Sure enough, that night when he finally opened it and announced the contents, several dresses were in there, including that olive green Betsey Johnson dress that still had the tags on it. Probably wrinkled by now, but in my possession, so that's all that matters.
But there was something else too. "It's a bear," my dad said, "It's wearing a shirt with the planets on it..."
My joy faded. "That's not a bear, that's a cat. There should be another one too, a white one." He checked the box further. Yes, there was another bear...er, cat. All the clothes I brought for them at Build-a-Bear, those came back too, as did the so-called condo packaging.
I don't know whether it was Jimmy's intention to give me a final fuck you, but it hurt me. Hard. Those stuffed cats were gifts over two separate Christmas seasons. The white cat was dressed in punk clothing (or as punk as possible, being Build-a-Bear isn't exactly aimed toward the Hot Topic crowd) to represent me. It was a present for him for Christmas 2004. The following year came the orange tabby kitty, dressed in surfer clothing, to represent him. They were presents for him. Now they're mine. I don't know whether to have them sent down, put them away, or donate them to a children's hospital. I'm thinking of having them sent down, but I don't know how much it will hurt to look at them.
Yeah, over a year later, it still hurts.
It's thunder and lightning outside. I want to go out for a drink. I want to prove to myself I'm better off being single.