He is seven.
There are girls on bikes in there.
Those boys probably laughed at me, even though the tears in my eyes were quite unexpectedly real. It takes a lot of humility to accept the fact that one is blatantly seeking kindness from strangers. Sad, for sure. Sort of pathetic is my estimation.
Well, it’s a long story. I can’t come up with an ending right now. I’d appreciate it if ya’ll would not laugh me or simper or tell me to get professional help…
Please keep in mind that it was, in large part, a steady adolescent diet of professional help that laid the foundation for this busted wreck.
I understand that this stupid blog has really screwed up my life. I get that.
The truth hurts. And the truth is my brother has never bothered to check out my drawings or send me an email. My mother tries, but she is phobic of the internet and can’t manage to brave it to read my words. My dad doesn’t know what to do, and so he just puts on his brown clothes and stoically tends the garden.
Nobody from work has called or emailed. (Don’t try it now, folks.) (Leave me alone, please.)
I know I screwed them over with my fall apart, but it really could not be avoided and it is not as if I am really enjoying myself. I mean, c’mon – drawings of Pele, asking Christian boys for mercy. This shit is fucked. I know it.
I keep telling myself that the facts are a fluke…that it isn’t possible that I am as big a whining loser shithead as I have been led to believe…but, hey:
That is, I swear, the last I will ever write of myself and my heart here. I am finished asking boys to pray for my way. I am finished trying to prove my worth. I don’t even know if I can do this shit anymore. I fuckin’ hate this goddam blog. I really do.
Maybe this isn’t the last I will write of myself. Maybe that’s my schtick: Narrative Non-Fiction:
Busted Girl seeks affirmation of worth,
gets ignored/scorned by all in a way
that nobody finds funny at all.
I don’t know. It will get better once I get over the burn of outstretched hands
empty in bright light.
Those Young Life boys failed the god they believe in. If they laughed at me, they will burn even quicker.
I wish someone would please make all this different, somehow. I think every one in Young Life should send me a ten dollar remittance on behalf of those boys. Really, that pretty much sealed the deal: if your parents pretend you don’t exist and the father of your children pretends you don’t exist and your old coworkers pretend you don’t exist and your brother (ach.) pretends you don’t exist and even your person – your old other half – somehow…pretends you don’t exist…and even god, it seems, has told his followers that people like you are best left alone…
Well, fine then. But, you can’t seriously expect me to pretend like I don’t know that everyone wishes me a way that I am not. I am here and I will still do my best to protect the parts of me that I value most: everything I learned from woods and old ladies and water and milk and death and birth.
I can’t reach out to any of you anymore.
I am not writing this shit for your goddam entertainment. I am writing this shit because I fall apart inside if I sit alone with myself and this truth.
How the hell can I take a Letterpress workshop this weekend?
I can’t even look people in the eye.
Except for the kids. I can still look them in the eye.
Whatever I did to whomever, wherever, whenever – pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease just…
This has to stop. This has to stop. This has to stop.
That is the very last time I will ask.
PROOF OF GOD! ...and other tragedies. 