Archive for August, 2011

Misery

Posted: August 28, 2011 in hidden admonishment
Tags:

I’m completely miserable.
I know I shouldn’t be.
Would you like to list the reasons for me again?
Knowing just makes it worse.

“Do some reasearch.”

Do some fucking research?

Does my life appear that short sighted and impulsive?
Are you fucking kidding me?

That’s right up there with,
“Just fake it until you make it.”

Oh yes.
It is.

Fucking worthless bullshit.

So many people have less than me.
Yeah, I’m sick of that one, too.

As if I’m a particularly greedy individual.
Cut throat for fame and fortune.
Have I stepped on a disproportionate number of innocents
to get to this high position?

That’s me all over.
That’s why you had to ask me if I’m a communist, right?

Short answer, yes.
I’m more of an
equal opportunity misanthrope

long since replacing skepticism, cynicism and doubt
with antipathy for playground politics.

Not blind.

“What happened for you?”

You ask fully expecting a horror story tipped with tragedy and steeped in reinforcing abuse.
I don’t have a reason
or an excuse.
I can make one up for you if that would make you feel better about not caring that I feel worse.

Simple self-pity.
I hear that a lot, too.

Maybe.

You told me I disgusted you, because I don’t like the American populace.
I disgust you?

Good.

How much more disgusting would I find myself if you loved me?
But then, of course, plenty of people do.
No, they don’t love me.

They care.

I’m told there’s a difference.
I don’t know the difference.
I should.

I don’t.

Just shut up then.
Most of the time, I do.

Most avenues for genuine
honest
communication have been blocked.

Someday, I’ll be just like you.

I’m not this person either.

Posted: August 27, 2011 in otiose

Wells Fargo woke me from a nap.
I answered only to be put on hold and then they disconnected.
I suppose I received the intended message regardless.

You can reassert however often you like, but debt is debt
and I’m a human being.

Submit three times daily.
It’s supposed to be five.

Five.

Five is so high.

Three.

Three times daily.

My first earthquake followed by my first hurricane.
I’m supposed to gush about both
but I’m underwhelmed.

My room smells like vomit, but I can’t bring myself to throw up.
I need a drink.

Let it go.
I still miss you sometimes.

I can’t afford to stay alive.

glass of water

Posted: August 27, 2011 in transliteration

I had to shut everything away at a safe, muted distance and reduced myself to traveling to and from the drinking fountain
with a glass.
I kept the glass from a pair we drank from.
One shatters against the wall before he put his fist through it
less than six inches from my face.
I carried the surviving glass to and from the drinking fountain.

I drank heavily
but I ventured to and from the drinking fountain
to sustain my Krebs cycle.

You breached the subject unexpectedly.
You’d noticed me
going to and from the drinking fountain.

You said that I was a lot like the people you painted
the way you painted them…

but you painted homeless people
from photos.

You may have been right.
I probably am more like those people you watched
than I’ll ever be like you.

What you saw, I feel, but your rationalization of it will always fall short.

I don’t pretend to know you.
I don’t sit and watch you and analyze you.
I acknowledge that you exist, and I might take note of what you’re doing.
I might attempt to change courses if you step in my path

to and from the drinking fountain.

Boredom

Posted: August 21, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , ,

I stopped counting the days after 1000, but I know what day it was
even if I’m not clear on what day it is.
It doesn’t change.
It doesn’t get easier.

I don’t have a “lifestyle” to change.
I’ve been lying to myself for awhile now.

I revisited a high school crush the year after I graduated college.
He’s probably a really great guy.
I know he is
and he’s a lot more attractive than he ever was as a kid.

I ended up calling him an asshole anyway…


…because I have problems.

I tried to figure it out for a few months;
what went wrong
but it’s not worth figuring out.

I just didn’t belong with him, and he took that extremely personally.
It was personal.

It’s not that I intended to intrude and make him mad
but that’s how it happened.
I still think he’s an asshole.

Maybe I should have taken the sugar cubes.

“I can hear it,” and then he told me all about how he can tell me all about where I’m from.

First of all, if you can hear it, then why did you ask me about local shelters and persist until I told you I’m not from the area? If you can fucking hear it, why did you have to ask me where I’m from?
Can you see my socioeconomic status stamped across my face as well?
“I know people.”

No.
You don’t.

Secondly, I hated Chicago, and I hate a lot of the people from Chicago that think of the entire Great Lakes area as their personal amusement park. I’m nice to you, because I’m paid to be nice to you. This, surprisingly, doesn’t make me a whore.

I want this job.
I like it.
I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.

Third, I don’t give a shit who you are, where you’re from, or what you think you know. I don’t care. The more you talk, the less interested I become.

You’re blind to anything that’s not a mirror image.
Stay contained.
Be happy.

Finally, if you’re going to hit on me in front of your seven year old son and use phrases like, “Girls don’t usually…” I would sincerely like you to reprioritize your life

and leave me out.

I do not give a flying fuck what you think girls do, like, think, or want. I don’t care if you’re right about most girls. You are not going to tell me jack shit about myself in relation to what you expect or have seen before from other girls. If you are talking to me, I am the only benchmark; and if you don’t know me, don’t fill in the gaps out of your own impatience.

You will fuck yourself over.

I’m sick of unsolicited advice and disgusted with the failure to offer it when I directly ask.

I do boring things when I’m bored, but I am no longer taking requests.

peanut butter

Posted: August 14, 2011 in hidden admonishment
Tags:

Peanut butter makes me remember shit.
How sad is that?
Peanut butter is a mental stimulant
for reminiscing
about the fucked way shit is.

Peanut butter.

I don’t even fucking like peanut butter very much.

So, let’s break this down.
Why am I eating peanut butter?

You remember shouting me down, telling me not to talk about love.
Telling me I didn’t understand love to talk about it
because you were always going to be with more than one girl.

Who the fuck asked for exclusivity?

Off point.
Who the fuck did you think you were to talk down to me
about an emotion you’re afraid to feel.
You’re fucking forty years old and self-proclaimed to have never been in love.
Is that really something to be proud of?
How often do you win the attention of an educated 20-something?

I’ve been in love.
I’ve head my “heart” shredded…
and I’m going to do it again

because I like it.

You’re gonna fuckin’ love me.
That’s right.
You, old timer.
You’re going to fall in love with my sorry ass.

I’m going to make you say it.
Check.
I’m going to make you feel it.
Double check.
And, for a little while, sure…I’ll love you.
I’ve got little better to do.

Who the fuck asked for exclusivity?
Fuck that mentality.
Go ahead and fuck your other women.
There is no one true love.
We are not soul mates.

I do not have a soul to mate with, but I’ll show you.
Oh yes.
I will.

I’m eating peanut butter, because you are not around for Sunday sandwiches.

Come on.
You’re already half in love with me anyway, and I’m fucking hungry.

You made me feel like
no one but you
could ever love me…

and even though I’m fairly certain now
that you did

love me

you didn’t make me feel like you cared
by trying to make me feel like you were the only one
that could ever possibly accept how damaged I was.

I’m a shit ton more fucked up now, by the way.

As a matter of observation; the more fucked up I admit that I am, the more people seem to accept me.
The more they expect and demand.
Here I am
estimating how many more days I can live off of a jar of peanut butter
because my best meal ticket
is out of town
and I spent grocery money on…a different part of myself.

I was never what you wanted, and if you thought I was…

“You can’t leave me. You know everything about me and still accept me.”

That, I suppose, is one of my major traits
good or bad
although you’re the only one to ever call me on it.
I haven’t had anyone say anything even remotely like that to me since you.
It gets me into a lot of trouble
presenting
and taking
at face value.

A lot of the shitty things you’ve said have been matched and surpassed, and all I can do is laugh, because what am I honestly going to do differently?
There are no huge surprises. There are no elaborate fabrications to untangle.
I am always this state of partially unhinged.

I believed you for a while.

It wasn’t me.
It was you.

I’m sorry you couldn’t accept that I’m stronger than you.
In all of my disgustingly weak, insecure, openly expressed flaws and vulnerabilities…
I’m my own person.
I haven’t grown out of it yet.
I’m not a thing.
You can’t gain a sense of ownership or control, or you can, but without my consent…you’re left with something completely different in my wake anyway.

Not me.

How long did you expect me to humor you?
How long will this jar of peanut butter last, because the end of the month is still

a long way off.

I regret to inform you that after three years of meticulous consideration, I have still not succeeded in quelling my resentment towards you. Not only do I remain actively agitated when forced to confront residual financial obligations pertaining to our time together, but more importantly, I have yet to recover my desire to create.

This is a difficult affront to my sense of well-being that I find much more devastating than any monetary arguments dissatisfied alum generally express, and while I hold no delusions that you will ever acknowledge any responsibility for the personal damage I have endured, I would like to take a moment to reassert that you are a terrible excuse for an educational asylum.

That is all.

Flat

Posted: August 14, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , , , ,

Papers have this way of breeding
while I have my head turned.

Apparently, I save instruction leaflets for everything from
macro camera lenses
to assembly pictographs for a shark kite.
Small appliances, simple furniture…
At one point, I think I was amused by the accompaniment of these sorts of instructions with a product, so I started saving the outlandishly worthless along with the almost necessary.
It does not appear that I save the preparation instructions off of food packaging (although I do read them even if I don’t bother to follow) so there is some unknown discriminatory filter in play.

All collections are incomplete
with a two year gap
as if my life went through a fire.

I guess it did, although I set it.

Financial records are the only complete collections.
I’m almost to the bottom of the pile, although, I’ve created new
shorter
stacks.
Some of them can be filed now.
Around half of them are still refugees of my life
and my mind.
There’s just no place where they belong.

I hate going through the papers.
These papers are predominately from before the bugs.
They’ve been boxed up and unseen for years.
The latest date I came across was situated in 2008.
Those papers must have been from a newer box
but they’ve been shuffled several times now.

This is my second attempt at filing since arriving here
and I made one attempt when I first arrived down the road
to, at least, combine the papers into a concentrated headache.

I don’t know why I bother.

After the papers, I just have to go back to the boxes.
Constantly attempting to cull down
weed out
groom my personal waste.

Most of the time, I ignore it.
Sometimes, I just want it to go away,
but I don’t like to think about it sitting in a landfill.

I don’t like to think about it at all.

This collection of instructions is massive.
It could fill an entire box on its own.
It seems wrong to discard it now.

Should I put the obsolete software with the obsolete instructions in a box with the obsolete hardware, or should I just throw the whole works out?

I’ll start small.
Anything pertaining to something I no longer have, I will throw out.
Anything pertaining to something I have but no longer use, I will organize and mark for further consideration at a later date in a different frame of mind.

Do you still have it?

Posted: August 12, 2011 in hidden admonishment
Tags:

I miss you.
It bothers me, because it’s true.

There’s this stupid little girl in me that was absent through my childhood.
When did she show up?

Isn’t it about time she wandered off to bed?

I went to a party once with a small group of people.
Only one out of the five of us had been invited.
That one wasn’t me, and I was not well liked.

I said the wrong thing to somebody.

I should have let you fuck me.
You so obviously wanted to.
I wanted you to.

You lured me to your basement studio for shit I didn’t care about.
You painted me prettier than I am.
Softer and less haggard.

You recognized me two years later on the street,
and you remembered how to pronounce my name.

I’d given everything twice by then, but I never had anything for you to begin with.

Hindsight

Posted: August 12, 2011 in otiose
Tags:

You made fun of me a lot.
That’s all you did.
Aside from the chew tobacco, that was the only thing you did wrong.

You had a temper, but so did I.

I still do.

You were irresponsible, and you lied a lot
about stupid things.
You constantly critiqued every little flaw of my body.
That gets old pretty quick.

I’m not gorgeous. I already know this.

You never stood up for me
and yet you told me the horrendous things your family would say.

Why did you do that?

You bought porn on my credit…without asking or telling me.
You broke expensive things that were difficult for me to replace.
All you did for months was play video games.

You used my cell phone
that I paid for
to call chat lines
but not me.

You ate my food and then complained about it.
It made you sick.
It made you fat.
You lived at my place but made fun of it.

You titty fucked me and still had the audacity to…

You fucked up.
You just…fucked up.
It’s gratifying that you’re no longer above groveling.

Damn right you miss what you had.

Declining Invitations

Posted: August 12, 2011 in otiose
Tags:

A general update on the girl that took me through the worst neighborhoods during the middle of the night: married.
That’s fine. I will always remember her as irritatingly half crazy…and disappointingly straight.

I am unlikely to ever marry.

I once took a large sheet of masonite onto a public bus after having walked with it for about ten blocks. I thought about walking all the way home with it just to avoid the embarrassment of looking into the driver’s face. It would have taken all day.

You sat next to me; as close as I would allow.
Mike.
19.
Living with a cousin in a poorer section of town.
You were very handsome…and very young…and very determined.
I wouldn’t give you my number, so you asked if you could give me yours.
“You can give it to me, but I won’t call it.”
I hurt your feelings.
I didn’t mean to.
You rebounded quickly, but for a split second…I saw you.
You were one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, but I never would have called you.

Honest. Honesty. Honestly, you’d think I’d learn to lie about it.

“You can text me, but I won’t receive it.”

I don’t want my pocket to vibrate five hundred times a day.
I have a confession to make.
Most days, my pockets are empty.
These are the choices I make.

Faceless.
Nameless.
Ageless.

Avoidant…and unmedicated for: disordered
mood
personality
thought

Would you still talk to me if you knew, by clinical assertion, that I’m sometimes

not always

psychotic?

Would that make a difference for you
with me
for this exchange that I’m always neurotic, always autistic, always abnormal, always, always, always going to be some kind of sick?

irl is not a proper acronym, and those that use it are not.
lol is unacceptable without lips and sound.
hahaha; emoticon
as I write the puerile shit down.

Do you need my name?
my real name
a nickname
a surname
asphyxiation affixed with a name tag.

No, I receive no texts.
This is a personal choice
for my personal space
made for personal reasons.

I do not make status updates
or restrict my boundless vacuity to
140 characters or less.

“Have I seen you somewhere before?”

And if you had? I don’t know. Were you looking?
Did you find me?

It’s funny
when you ask.

If you want to see me, your best bet will be to look where you last saw me.
I might be there…provided I want to be seen

or maybe I’m looking for you.

I’ve been looking for over a month.
I asked others that like to try to make me happy to look, too.

Someone is supposed to be fixing my bathroom
so I cleaned
and I left early this morning to avoid them
but they didn’t come.

I took a nap naked in my car
in a parking lot where I tucked myself in between a tree and a trailer for a nearby construction crew.
Not fully nude…just essentially naked.
No less covered than any standard American girl
that goes to the beach and doesn’t want tan lines.

I didn’t sleep well.
It gets hot relatively fast in a small, enclosed, glass and plastic biodome.
I slept for two hours before deciding
both
that the construction was not a soothing sound
and that I was really fucking thirsty.

God says drinking’s not allowed, but I’m bleeding, so a ridiculous exception has been made…even though it’s far more important to avoid dehydration right before menstruation

to prevent that nasty fucking four-day headache.

At any rate, I’ve already ascertained that the entire ritual is ludicrous for a non-believer to partake in.
It’s probably forbidden.
Blasphemy.

Harem.

I feel like doing it anyway…likely stemming from a pervasive boredom.
You also have no God given right (and certainly no legal grounds) to tell me not to.
At least I have distinct reasons for rejecting each of the major religions I’ve looked into over the years.
I’m allowed to do that.
I’m not just blindly exclusionary…ironically enough, considering that seems to be a contradictory earmark to most faiths.

Yes, I know, but in practice…I’ve spend a great deal of my life ostracized for the sentiment not to bear a certain degree of honesty.

Anyway, I went to a store with the intention of getting something to drink, which, as I’ve said, is entirely acceptable due to the arbitrary fact that I’m a fertile baby incubator within my functioning age range with the monthly reminder to prove that a strapless strapon won’t change that.

I didn’t grab a basket or a cart, because I just wanted to find something to drink, but I found myself in a Super Target, because I find the anonymity of such places less threatening (and more affordable) than little market shops.

I have a strong aversion to social interaction.

When I saw the watermelons, I forgot everything, was completely beside myself and squealed with excitement.
I’d been looking for over a month.
Seedless.
Seedless.
Seedless.
Personal sized seedless.
Seedless.
Fucking seedless watermelons everywhere.

They don’t taste the same.
Your genetic engineering has failed.
I want seeds in my sweet, pink, fleshy fruit.

The people around me did not share or understand my personal excitement, and I received a lot of funny looks from people as I cradled the watermelon I chose in my arms while continuing through the store on my quest for something to drink.

People are always passively judgmental in stores like this if you decide to carry anything heavy (that isn’t liquor) through the store without the aid of a cart.

People, in general, are just always latently (or blatantly) judgmental, under whatever guise…myself included. Although there is something remotely nice to be said for self-awareness. At least I know and acknowledge that some things about me are shitty.

Relatively speaking, I do still somewhat logically deduce that I’m a reasonably good person, however. Like all those modifiers?

Well, I’m sorry. I’m perfectly capable of carrying a watermelon and a case of water without a cart.

An older man kept bumping into me.
Sometimes it happens.
Often, it’s calculated.
Generally, I don’t have much interest in being picked up at 11AM coming off a sleepless night and showerless morning, but…

It’s not written in the Qur’an. The shit that happens…It’s not justified.
It’s not justifiable.
The shit that people do to one another.
It’s written in Islamic State law
not
The Book.

It is not the word of God.
It is not the will of God.

I have so many religious books; so many books that are The Book.
I don’t mean to indicate that I only think this about Islam, but I happen to be mired with that specific clusterfuck at the moment.
So much bullshit.

I’m not against God.
My failure of personal faith
My personal failure in faith
My lack of faith is irrelevant
As is the specific faith in reference.

I’m not against God or spiritualism or whatever the fuck ideologue a person adopts,
within reason and provided they express a similar tolerance for mine–which clearly is not the case with most people, or I wouldn’t be so bitchy.
I’m against humanity cowering behind…bullshit.
I am not implying that faith is necessarily bullshit.
I’m not even expressing that dogma is inherently bullshit.
I’m saying people are shitty to one another for no good reason.
Right from wrong is not that fucking hard.
It’s not even a sign of civility.
Compassion is expressed in “primitive” constructs constantly.

Humanity might have staggering potential, but it is disappointingly, predominately shit
and as an observation, it’s easy to want to blame…self-righteous tunnel vision.

So, obviously, what I meant to say was that despite annoying housemates and irritating conversations about the eternal condemnation of my soul (which I can only playfully imagine simply because I stake little faith in personally witnessing eternity or possessing/being a soul)I found watermelon and a guinea pig, so…I’m pretty happy today.

Decision Point

Posted: August 7, 2011 in transliteration
Tags:

I’m fucked up at 3:40 in the morning.
I left work early to five people
all infinitely smarter than me
telling me how to live my life
because I left an hour early
with a headache that has been progressing
and worsening
for the past four days
into a paint that I could still ignore
but I couldn’t see anymore
and I was having difficulties standing up.

I just wanted to go home.
This is my home, where I cooked for myself last night for the first time
and came in the door to that skinny, chatty bitch telling me
that I’m welcome to use their kettles whenever I want to cook something
because I used my own last night
and cleaned up after myself.

Not out of kindness; because I cleaned up after myself.
Because I have no room in the fucking kitchen to store anything, so I bring my food down the stairs with me
and I take my cooking utensils back upstairs with me.

I don’t want to use your stuff.
I want to use mine.
If I wanted to use your stuff, I’d ask.

If I wanted the advice of three of my coworkers
and two of my bosses
and all of my sexual encounters

I
would
ask.

I’m perfectly capable of living my own life
making my own decisions
and cooking with my own fucking pots.

I’m out of pain medication
that can hardly touch this headache anyway.

I don’t believe in God, but I’m going to fast for the month, because I’m starving to death anyway.
If being skinny weren’t so fucking idealized, someone might notice before I fall over from malnutrition.
I know all about nutrition, but thanks for all of the bullshit advice that I didn’t ask for and don’t care about.
That’s for paying me absolute shit. I’ll do what you tell me in regards to work, but that’s it.

Stay out of my personal life.
Stay out of my way.
Let me cook the way I want, fuck the way I want, and despise this religion the way I see fit.

I do not need any more outside irritants than what passively bombard me just by co-existing.

Do I tell you what to do with your life? Do I? Have I made any mention of what I think you should or should not be doing with your life? Huh? The only shit I say about what you do is in regards to how it directly makes me feel during or afterwards, and if you don’t care, then don’t fucking change; but don’t expect me to maintain a high level of composure with the constant repetition of bullshit.

Stay the fuck out of my way. Does my body language not express this clearly enough? I don’t talk to you. I don’t hold up my end of the conversation well when you talk to me. Do I really need to put on a dramatic verbal act for you to fucking get it?

My head is conspiring to explode, and I just want to be alone with it in a vain attempt to calm it down, because it’s going to take me out with it when it goes.

Posted: August 6, 2011 in otiose
Tags:

Religion is elitist and selfish.

Dogma

Posted: August 6, 2011 in hidden admonishment
Tags: ,

Forgoing the traditional nap, I waited for my moment
my first opportunity.
Gauging breathing patterns and snoring, I made a break for it

turning off the lights
tucking him in
and locking the doors behind me.

I left work early.
Sorry, I can’t be girly.
I don’t believe in God.

I don’t believe in anything.

“It’s your life. Do what you want.”
You say this to me over and over again, and I hate it.
I’ve asked you not to say it.
I know it’s your way of telling me that you’ll tolerate me
but you don’t understand.
I contort for you, because I want to.

I’m a good person.
I don’t say this shit to make myself feel better.

I don’t want to be a good person.

I want to believe in something
and belong somewhere
and feel like I understand someone.

Anything, anywhere, anyone.
It doesn’t need to be good. It needs to be real.

Just…

I know who I am.
I don’t hate who I am.
I hate that the only thing I know is who I am.

Cleaning

Posted: August 5, 2011 in otiose
Tags:

That’s what I attempt to do with my time off.
I’m staying here for a little while.
A few years.
Five.
I scamper off faster than the roaches when anyone but the dog approaches.
I hate them.
After all this time, I probably still hate myself.
I can’t take the attempts I make to change seriously.
I don’t want to be girly.
I have a hard enough time dealing with being skinny.
The recent bingeing has set me back…financially.
Sigh…
I have to readdress the financial situation at hand.
I’ve been ignoring it for a year and a half longer than I determined practical.
I’m resourceful enough to stretch that far below the numbers.
I could keep going.
Sometimes I wonder if I am too “smart” for my own good.

Sometimes I wonder.

I’ve thrown out another two sacks of…baggage.
I have to turn back to the stacks of papers that always win this war.
Not now.
Off to work.
New distractions to set into motion later.

You forget whatever’s inconvenient to that hard candy shell of shellacked on happiness.

Fuck off.

Fuck you. Fuck your religion. Fuck your god. And fuck your ill-gotten happiness, motherfucker.

You win. I’ve lost my temper again.

bare bones

Posted: August 2, 2011 in hidden admonishment

I’m pissed off, but I’m also extremely lonely and don’t think I’ll ever find any genuine satisfaction in companionship.

If I could give up on wanting that, I’d be fine; happy even.

I hate you.

Posted: August 2, 2011 in transliteration
Tags:

The first girl I ever loved.
Her family for taking her away.
My sister choosing her white trash friends
and then money
money
Money.
The little boy that wasn’t too good to play with matchbox cars with me in the mud
and his pedophile father in the corner house.
All of their friends.
The neighbor girl that thought her name was more important than my memory
and baptism made playmates.
Sara.
Danah.
Sara.
Sara.
Sara.
Sara.

Sara?

The boy from the drug house that decided I was too weird to be pretty.
The fat kid that I can still taste and his older brother.
The indian kid’s fire engine red half brother, Danny, and his full sister Suzy.
The whore that stole from me.
The whore I stole for.
My third grade teacher.

CoryJacobJerryMitch

The freckled girl’s father and the Buddhist.
The Pynes and all of their bastard children.

My freshman roommate.

Zac and his dealer.
The dancer that never gave me her real name.
Katie and her print making.
The asshole that spent hundreds of dollars to make his name a little more pretentious.

Reagan

The first psychologist I ever saw
and the second.
The psychotherapist I didn’t pay.

The crackwhore that took my money.
The crippled old man that spit on me, and his cunt of a daughter, and her worthless son, and his sister’s bastard baby’s stupid made up name.
The shitty kisser that gave me unsolicited advice.
The bitch that dyed my hair “a more natural brown” than my natural color.

The bitch that wrote the book I’m reading about the most amazing man alive.
The pretty boy that ruined Plastic Beach for me.
The anonymous individual that stole my chair painting.
And the fucker that took my rat painting.

Huey.
The prolife dumbfuck who named her asshole kid Huey and failed to kill him before he hit puberty.

Brad. Pretty much every Brad I’ve ever met.
The journalist.
My Great Uncle.
My dry drunk former uncle.

Everyone that’s ever wanted me to call them Daddy.
The fucker that tells me I fight with him for no reason but won’t leave me alone.
His friend that’s going to pray for me.

You.