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| "What You Remember Is So Warped."
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I sat out there with you and your other. Your significant. Your reason for being here in this dry state with rude people.
Bottom line, Your Excuse.
I don't remember if it was cold. I don't think I remember them smoking, but I know they were. They always do. It's a permanent scar between her shaking fragile digits. Like a compulsive twitch that only gets worse each time I see her. Or you.
I don't even know why I tried to explain it to them, or really, her (as his opinion holds no relevance or substance to me anymore), but I did.
She is like a relationship to me. A toxic boyfriend. In the end, I always forgive, and I always want more from her. I can't tear out the images of being four, sitting outside the bathroom door, just. . . waiting for her to come out. I'd stick my baby hands under the cracks, asking her often when she would be done. I missed her that much in so little of time.
Back then, still around the age of four, I laid on our couches with her on a Saturday afternoon, down deep in the depths of our cold, comforting basement. All lights off aside the eerie glow from an aging lamp. Or sometimes we would just allow ourselves to be swallowed by the pitch black.
Earth, Wind and Fire. Enya. Suzanne Ciani. Forest by George Winston. Roxette. Even Yanni.
I remember all of her favorites then. I'd see her close her eyes and relax, absorb whatever she was trying to absorb. I don't think I realized what she was thinking about then, but I bet I'm fucking close to guessing what it was now. I'd sneak a peek from pretending-to-be-closed-lashes, just to make sure that I was in synch with her. That I was relaxing correctly, relaxing the way that she would, as I enjoyed being just like her.
I remember when I was younger, maybe even younger than four, I crept into her bedroom, just before dusk. It was so dark, and I don't know how I made it to their large king size bed with out running into anything else, but I did. Somehow as well I made it along side the left side, feeling my way towards the racking sobs coming from her. Sometimes I tell myself that this was a dream, but I very much doubt it. I remember her telling me to go away, that she was okay.
She could hardly talk she was sobbing so hard. When you are that young you can't imagine what would make someone cry that way. I guess I understand that better now as well.
Again, more memories. . . sitting on our carpeted stairs, two steps from the bottom. Again, wanting to spend time with her. Wanting her attention. Obviously now was her time to be by herself since as I poked my head around, my innocent eyes captured what appeared to be some type of game show being watched on our TV. A game show with naked women, their big tits circled by a black marker, their nipples dotted like eyeballs. These women's belly button's were circled for a nose. Their bigger-than-should-be-allowed crotch bush representing the human mouth.
Whatever type of game show this was, I remember hearing a crowd from the TV speakers laughing.
Then I got older, and smarter.
I remember, around the age of 12, sneaking into our computer room where you used to be most of your time lately, you had an instant message open.
You were out in the back for a cigarette break. This is where your chain smoking began, I suppose.
I read as much as I could as fast as I could. What I read was enough.
Information gathered:
You were talking to an older male.
You had talked to him many times as you kept referring to past conversations.
You were different-- you were not the quiet mother that I always saw, always associated you with.
You had a young personality, almost child-like. Teenage-like, really.
You were personal.
And you were telling him about the men you fucked that were not my father.
My dad- - the person that I had for some reason despised in this whole mess that we call divorce. The person I blamed and didn't want to see.
Even knowing this, reading this and understanding this, I still laughed that night you came home and you told me about your therapy session. You said, "He told me that I am somehow reverting back to my teenage years."
She told me that this therapist had explained to her in a different version that she was going through a mid-life crisis.
She said that her behavior lately was a result of not having experienced it when she was younger.
She was a child again.
And for some fucking reason, we laughed. We laughed for a good half an hour.
I don't think it's so fucking funny anymore.
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Posted by StayingAlive on 2008-06-25 15:48:41 | Rating: | Views: 103
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| Blog Comments
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....hmmmm......you have....like...seriously mother issues. i do hope that this does not affect other aspects of your life.
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Posted by bloodintheeyes
on 2008-07-08 15:51:59
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...i will take that as an...YES. but then again. don't we all?
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Posted by bloodintheeyes
on 2008-07-08 16:45:04
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She can kiss my ass.
I always knew I didn't like her heart, and I'm glad I know why.
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Posted by StayingAlive
on 2008-07-08 16:47:29
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