Least Excited
I am probably the least excited person to ever "win a trip to France!" Woohoo!
So that would make me ungrateful? Fine, I can handle that.
It's not like it's a free trip. We bought the tickets.
Plus, what's worse, is I will be stuck in an apartment for 8 days with a woman I can't stand and a woman I can't figure out how to relate to. I want to screal already and we're not even fighting for in flight leg room yet.
Not to mention, or to mention, I have osteoarthritis in my lower back that makes my right leg weak and unusually numb. Great. Can I just have a bottle of Xanax and we'll call this quits? I don't to go.
Oh but everyone thinks it's just grand! And I guess, from the outside it is.
A baptism in a real cathedral, the same cathedral Cordes' grandmother went to as a child. A luncheon in my baby's honor with a real French chef named, what else?, John Paul sooking up the goods. An apartment within walking distance of a bakery we'll travel to on foot each morning for the day's fresh baguette. A car we can travel around in to WWI and WWII sites along with shopping and wine tastings.
So why do I want to drown myself in a bottle of red wine topped off with some sleeping pills and forego the whole thing?
Maybe I'm just dramatic.
I won't do it. No, because my baby boy, my life, is going and I sure as hell can't depend on anyone else to make sure he's safe and sound, fed and clothed, bathed and napped.
I want to steal him away and run. Run, run, run. And never look back.
A trip to France shouldn't make one behave, or even think of behaving, so drastically.
But it's not just the trip.
Plus, the baptism frekas me out. I think holy water would burn me like acid.
There's this place, somewhere I can't remember the name, that Mary told Sister Bernadette or someone about in a dream or fit of hallucination or whatever. It's a spring that came out of a crack rock. Cracked rock, sorry. It's supposed to heal anyone who goes there. Sits in it or drinnks from the spring or something like that. The water is supposed to heal and I'm supposed to believe there are thousands of wheel chairs and crutches there from "healed" people. Cordes told me this story. He seems to believe in the healing properties of this crack rock water. I think it's bullshit, like seeing the Virgin Mary's face on a croissant. I'm not religious. I have no faith. I absolutely feel nothing but anger toward the Catholic church and he wants my son to grow up with religion. To grow up and "know" god. Who the fuck is god?!
It's all so hippocritical. I told him that if he wanted to do this it was his responsibility to go to church, to make the appointments, to get the paperwork done. In the past 6 weeks he has maybe gone once to church. In the past 3 months since this got started maybe 4 times if I want to be generous.
I can't go to church. It turns my stomach.
So here I go, having to deal with this ritual. This abomination. This hippocracy. And I'm supposed to smile like I'm so proud this shit is going down. I'm supposed to bite my tongue and let it happen.
So what? It won't hurt him.
Then let's not do it. It sure as hell won't help.
If god is all mighty I think he'd have better things to do than take a running roll of who has and has not had water poured on their heads.
Fuck it all. I have to go.
"Make the most of it" people say. Or, "you're so lucky". I'd give most anything to be able to run. Run away and run free. Forget all this. Leave it behind.
Just...run.
So that would make me ungrateful? Fine, I can handle that.
It's not like it's a free trip. We bought the tickets.
Plus, what's worse, is I will be stuck in an apartment for 8 days with a woman I can't stand and a woman I can't figure out how to relate to. I want to screal already and we're not even fighting for in flight leg room yet.
Not to mention, or to mention, I have osteoarthritis in my lower back that makes my right leg weak and unusually numb. Great. Can I just have a bottle of Xanax and we'll call this quits? I don't to go.
Oh but everyone thinks it's just grand! And I guess, from the outside it is.
A baptism in a real cathedral, the same cathedral Cordes' grandmother went to as a child. A luncheon in my baby's honor with a real French chef named, what else?, John Paul sooking up the goods. An apartment within walking distance of a bakery we'll travel to on foot each morning for the day's fresh baguette. A car we can travel around in to WWI and WWII sites along with shopping and wine tastings.
So why do I want to drown myself in a bottle of red wine topped off with some sleeping pills and forego the whole thing?
Maybe I'm just dramatic.
I won't do it. No, because my baby boy, my life, is going and I sure as hell can't depend on anyone else to make sure he's safe and sound, fed and clothed, bathed and napped.
I want to steal him away and run. Run, run, run. And never look back.
A trip to France shouldn't make one behave, or even think of behaving, so drastically.
But it's not just the trip.
Plus, the baptism frekas me out. I think holy water would burn me like acid.
There's this place, somewhere I can't remember the name, that Mary told Sister Bernadette or someone about in a dream or fit of hallucination or whatever. It's a spring that came out of a crack rock. Cracked rock, sorry. It's supposed to heal anyone who goes there. Sits in it or drinnks from the spring or something like that. The water is supposed to heal and I'm supposed to believe there are thousands of wheel chairs and crutches there from "healed" people. Cordes told me this story. He seems to believe in the healing properties of this crack rock water. I think it's bullshit, like seeing the Virgin Mary's face on a croissant. I'm not religious. I have no faith. I absolutely feel nothing but anger toward the Catholic church and he wants my son to grow up with religion. To grow up and "know" god. Who the fuck is god?!
It's all so hippocritical. I told him that if he wanted to do this it was his responsibility to go to church, to make the appointments, to get the paperwork done. In the past 6 weeks he has maybe gone once to church. In the past 3 months since this got started maybe 4 times if I want to be generous.
I can't go to church. It turns my stomach.
So here I go, having to deal with this ritual. This abomination. This hippocracy. And I'm supposed to smile like I'm so proud this shit is going down. I'm supposed to bite my tongue and let it happen.
So what? It won't hurt him.
Then let's not do it. It sure as hell won't help.
If god is all mighty I think he'd have better things to do than take a running roll of who has and has not had water poured on their heads.
Fuck it all. I have to go.
"Make the most of it" people say. Or, "you're so lucky". I'd give most anything to be able to run. Run away and run free. Forget all this. Leave it behind.
Just...run.