Polygon

November 10, 2009 at 10:12 PM | Posted in Personal | Leave a comment
  It does come at me from all sides.

  The Storm said my son had a breakdown, because he feels like I don’t love him and don’t want to spend time with him.  And he feels like he’s been replaced by Detroit’s two sons.
  My daughter had knee surgery the other day to correct her leg alignment.
  I am broke and getting broker, and stressed out as I try to figure out how to get more money into the house.
  I feel pressure from my brother to take care of the insurance money…something I should have done over a year ago anyway.
  I have no idea what is going on with my sister and I’m leery of asking because I don’t want to be drawn into her bottomless pit of despair and poor decision-making.
  I have vehicular troubles all over the house–the Mercedes needing an oil change is the least of my problems.  Detroit’s van has a possessed electrical system, the Saturn can’t pass an emissions inspection, Fred sits in the garage like a coma victim on life support, and Mitchell’s Intrepid sits in his driveway waiting for a drive-by shooting to put it out of its misery.
  My home improvement projects have hit a snag after things were going so well.  Aside from the minor issue of running out of money, these goddamn recessed fucking lights that I fucking put up in the unholy ceiling of the fucking shit basement don’t work.  And while I’m not an electrician, I am a thinker.  If there are six lights connected and there is power to EVERY wire but the lights don’t come on, I think there is something wrong.  I have a tester that shows current to all the wires.  It should be bright, but the darkness of the basement permeates even my soul, like a grape Kool-aid stain on a white carpet.
  Speaking of simile, my newly diagnosed ADD is like an old girlfriend who left town, got a degree and got diagnosed as psychotic and then came back for her BeeGee albums.  It’s familiar to me, and the only thing that’s different is that now I know what to call it.  It doesn’t mean I know how to deal with it.
  If only my son knew how much I missed him and wanted to spend time with him.  Between his schedule and mine, and his detached aloofness that patrols the walls he has up, it’s a wonder I can talk to him at all.  While I do like Alex alot, as far as Brandon goes the most you can say is that on the best days I tolerate him.  And neither one of them is Mitchell.  My firstborn male child, my progeny, my bloodline.  My younger and gigantic mini-Me.  The one upon whose shoulders my hopes and dreams for the future of the family lie.
  He doesn’t know, you know, that when I left Linda I wanted to take him with me.  I knew that I could never take Miranda, and to make a baby make that choice is wrong.  And it was the same for Mitchell.  I would never make them make that choice; it’s wrong.  I left them with their mother because it was best for them.  I sacrificed a piece of me for them.
  I know that makes me sound like a martyr and that’s not what I meant.  All I meant was, I wasn’t going to make a bad situation worse by doing that to them.
  My daughter’s knee surgery went well, even though I had to spend the whole day with my ex.  Aside from the painful awkwardness of sitting in a room with her for several hours, I also got several great reminders of how close she is to Miranda–a closeness that I will never have again.

  I just….grrr!  Fuck this pity party.

  I guess I need to sort me fuckin life out, mate.  Figure out what I can do something about, and what I can’t do anything about.  Draw a line down the middle, make two columns, and then fuck with both of them.

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