Leaving here for sure

There's a time in my life that I remember fondly, much too fondly. I look back on it a lot and wish I was still there, with a group of people that didn't even really even know me or where I came from. Those feelings are a betrayal to my husband, my education, all the things I've been able to accomplish since then. But still, there are days that I can't shake from my head the cobwebs of those days. I'm normally a  very eloquent person, but any grace escapes me when it comes to this era of my life.

All I can say is that I was surrounded by a  group of people that allowed me to feel superior, to feel as though I had stumbled upon something very special that would last a long, long time. I was wrong.

What was really the case, is tht I had found a way to cover up my past, my history and distract people with my clothes, my hair, and my innate ability to make some men feel like gods. I was a demure indie rock goddess and eventully you would make me a mix tape, see my pierced breasts, buy me a milkshake, or fuck my best friend. You would never be mine, and I would never be yours. And for one particular man, he also got to break my heart. What wasn't already broken by other circumstances in my life. To say tht I felt special is an understatement. I felt loved, protected. I felt like I floated three inches above the ground.

There were nights when I wnted to clutch the arms of my companion and ask them if they knew what I had to do to be there with them on that curb. All the things I hd to deny, hide, or relearn. Of course, they didn't know. I hadn't told them. I would never tell anyone.

When it all fell apart, as all things do, I puzzled over the whys and wherefores for years. I felt such fierce affection for people I had hidden myself from. I desperately wanted to reclaim that feeling, those people. I needed to feel like I was part of something, part of them. They were part of me.

I spent lot of time feeling wounded and have since realized that I wasn't wounded by any of them. You can't wound ghost, and that's what I was. That's what I am.

I am angry that you broke my heart, that you took my time and my love. I want back the moments that I warmed you as we slept and the times we talked about the children we would have. The times I waited for you as you fucked someone else are my fault - you never asked me to wait. You didn't want that from me. I used to say that you haunted me, but now I know tht I haunted you. I know you, from the tips of your long fingernils to the wings you keep hoping to sprout. You know nothing about me - probably not even my middle name. 

I'm shaking you out of my hair. What you did to me was unfair, careless. But just know that any affection you had for me was for a construct and not a person. If you ever did love me, if part of you still does, cease. Desist. I am a million miles away.

The best thing ever

Once upon a time, I worked at a coffee shop that was smack dab in the middle of three homeless shelters. It was the bum Bermuda Triangle, basically. I worked 10 hour shifts and the money I made barely covered my parking tickets. From, you know, where I parked my car during the shift. 

Anyway, one of my many duties, aside from making lukewarm drinks with spoiled milk, was stocking our beverage cooler. We sold cans of pop, juices, whatever. The cans of pop were the most popular among our "clientele" because they were only a dollar. So anyway, one day I am stocking the cooler and I drop this one can of Coke, like, seven times. I am not kidding. That can was so bloated and full of fizz by the time I got it to the cooler, I was surprised it hadn't exploded. I shoved it in the back and went back to work sweeping the carpet. Because we didn't have a vacuum.

Flash forward to 4:45 PM, the end of my shift. Bums and students are filtering in like crazy and without me realizing it, I sell this one particularly insane bum that bloated, dented can of Coke. 

He goes over and sits down on one of our diseased arm chairs and starts making fun of my boyfriend (now husband) about wanting to have sex with furniture. I don't really know where this insult came from and neither does he. 

My boyfriend (now husband) is about to tell this guy to go back to his crawlspace when he opens that abused can of Coke. Which, amazingly, perfectly, shoots out of the can and hits him directly in the eye. 

In that moment, everything in my shitty life made sense. I knew without a doubt that, eventually, everything would be okay. And it wasn't - not for a long time. But it is now.

And I gave the guy a free Sprite for his troubles.