"Listen as the wind blows across the great divide..."
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I still have the message from her saved somewhere. It was so succinct, accurate and heartbreaking that I couldn't possibly delete it entirely.
It was simple. All it said was:
"I felt like I was watching you die."
She was absolutely right. Had I stayed in Philadelphia, I'd be on a slab in some locker with - at best - a handful of people debating whether or not they wanted to drive to the heart of urban blight to identify the corpse. I'm sure the other three guys shot dead on my street experienced the same (insofar as the dead experience anything).
I think she loved me. I do. Maybe she still does, in some way. At the very least, she never failed to show me she cared. That's more than I can say for most of my own family. Speaking of which-
My dad met me at some trendy microbrew place that had me feeling like I was eating Denny's food in its own parking lot. I flatter myself that I understand people (in the aggregate) more than most yet I'm still constantly amazed at their terrible choices. I know; I'm one to talk, right? Regardless, my dad talked about guilt and regret. I suppose it's the two things we've always had in common. He also mentioned how he realized my mom's family (and tacitly my mother, also) was as dysfunctional as his was. In my signature style of "beat you to it", I gave evidence that I'd solved that particular riddle a decade or more earlier. I very diplomatically added the two of them were together for entirely unhealthy reasons. I no longer cast stones at that, though. As I age, I increasingly am left with the sense everyone does. I'm hoping that's the cynic in me. But I doubt it.
I'm still overweight. Depression added 105lbs to me but I've been lifting 6 days a week at a gym and no longer smoke like an oil fire. Nor do I drink much, for that matter. I think I look better but I get the sense any female under 30 sees me as a fat, old man that can't give up his biker past. I try not to let it bother me since worrying what women under 30 thought is what fucked my life into the ramshackle carnival it's become. Forgive my impolite honesty.
I barely sleep anymore as constant thoughts of the house I left, along with the many possessions - both replaceable and not - torment me. Admittedly, the advice I got to "just lock the door, leave and never look back" was probably for the best but I'm uncertain it'll ever feel that way.
I was voted "most likely to succeed" in high school, if you can believe that. I've written two books. They don't sell well because they're True. I use their existence as a point of pride, however. I still blog regularly, but at a different site. I tell men how to avoid fucking up as badly as I have. It helps- me, if no one else. At least I've done something lasting.
On that note, there's a woman that found my stuff and has been hitting me up for advice re: her and her man. She's a good egg and actually listens so I indulge her. I do what I can and it seems to help. She mentioned - at one point - how she feels punished for "being responsible"; 31 (I think; never ask a woman her age) and no kids. I get the sense it's killing her, though she hasn't admitted such. I don't know her well enough to admit how many (and often) women I've raw-dogged - whether I was drunk or sober - in hopes of knocking them up and giving myself a reason to stop squandering what little good I have remaining in me. I gave that behavior up, by the way, because it's bad. Understandable, definitely. But bad.
Well, I'm entirely too sober to continue so I'll close here.
Goodnight.
God bless.
Click to viewI still have the message from her saved somewhere. It was so succinct, accurate and heartbreaking that I couldn't possibly delete it entirely.
It was simple. All it said was:
"I felt like I was watching you die."
She was absolutely right. Had I stayed in Philadelphia, I'd be on a slab in some locker with - at best - a handful of people debating whether or not they wanted to drive to the heart of urban blight to identify the corpse. I'm sure the other three guys shot dead on my street experienced the same (insofar as the dead experience anything).
I think she loved me. I do. Maybe she still does, in some way. At the very least, she never failed to show me she cared. That's more than I can say for most of my own family. Speaking of which-
My dad met me at some trendy microbrew place that had me feeling like I was eating Denny's food in its own parking lot. I flatter myself that I understand people (in the aggregate) more than most yet I'm still constantly amazed at their terrible choices. I know; I'm one to talk, right? Regardless, my dad talked about guilt and regret. I suppose it's the two things we've always had in common. He also mentioned how he realized my mom's family (and tacitly my mother, also) was as dysfunctional as his was. In my signature style of "beat you to it", I gave evidence that I'd solved that particular riddle a decade or more earlier. I very diplomatically added the two of them were together for entirely unhealthy reasons. I no longer cast stones at that, though. As I age, I increasingly am left with the sense everyone does. I'm hoping that's the cynic in me. But I doubt it.
I'm still overweight. Depression added 105lbs to me but I've been lifting 6 days a week at a gym and no longer smoke like an oil fire. Nor do I drink much, for that matter. I think I look better but I get the sense any female under 30 sees me as a fat, old man that can't give up his biker past. I try not to let it bother me since worrying what women under 30 thought is what fucked my life into the ramshackle carnival it's become. Forgive my impolite honesty.
I barely sleep anymore as constant thoughts of the house I left, along with the many possessions - both replaceable and not - torment me. Admittedly, the advice I got to "just lock the door, leave and never look back" was probably for the best but I'm uncertain it'll ever feel that way.
I was voted "most likely to succeed" in high school, if you can believe that. I've written two books. They don't sell well because they're True. I use their existence as a point of pride, however. I still blog regularly, but at a different site. I tell men how to avoid fucking up as badly as I have. It helps- me, if no one else. At least I've done something lasting.
On that note, there's a woman that found my stuff and has been hitting me up for advice re: her and her man. She's a good egg and actually listens so I indulge her. I do what I can and it seems to help. She mentioned - at one point - how she feels punished for "being responsible"; 31 (I think; never ask a woman her age) and no kids. I get the sense it's killing her, though she hasn't admitted such. I don't know her well enough to admit how many (and often) women I've raw-dogged - whether I was drunk or sober - in hopes of knocking them up and giving myself a reason to stop squandering what little good I have remaining in me. I gave that behavior up, by the way, because it's bad. Understandable, definitely. But bad.
Well, I'm entirely too sober to continue so I'll close here.
Goodnight.
God bless.