Where do we go from here.
That’s the big one right, pretty much as soon as they wipe the chunky effluvia from your crusty eyes and slap your first unheeded complaint into the world, people are already bored of your shit.
They’ve done 12 hours of the least endearing episode of the You Show already, they’re done.
The nurses wanna go to sleep,
the doctors wanna leave,
your parents wanna sleep.
They want to feel like something is done, crossed off the list, and that you’re moving on to
the Next Big Thing.
You feel like crying just because a doctor slapped you, little dude?
You just wait a few days and you’ll see what’s worth crying about.
Wait a few years. You’ll break a finger but that’s nothing.
You break a leg but that’s nothing, you know nothing.
A collarbone? That’s nothing.
You think you know pain, you know nothing.
This is pain, this thing _I_ have, what you have is nothing.
Good to know. I filed that one.
“I don’t know what pain is.”
Color code that fact a light magenta to denote “a light air of menace” and filed it under topics to not bring up unless I wanted the day ruined, a vast array of such cards, in old fashioned card catalog cabinets. Light magentas go third row, fourth column, arrange by context: race, politics, health, sport, masculinity, femininity, truth, validity, logic cross index and update master catalog.
My pain cannot be discussed on any level, I have compiled the numbers, the cross indexes eliminated and the statistics rendered. It is an off topic subject.
My pain brings him shame. It means I’m not perfect, I’m not the perfection of him.
My health brings him fear. (His health can not be discussed. I’m just a kid. How would I know. I know nothing.) If I’m not healthy it means he has failed, it brings the shame, and then the anger. Why didn’t you tell me?! Why didn’t you think about how this would make me feel that you didn’t want to talk to me about this? Why don’t I ever want to talk to him about anything?
I did, but… then
I ran the numbers.
I knew it would end here.
Well, the Me show is just getting started.
It’s not done. I’m sorry for being morose here, all the time, but I try to limit my mourning to this space. I’m working on things. I’m failing at them and learning and doing them more times. Doing all that theater tech I never could because everybody was convinced I was gay without the pink cast of stagelight. Playing in my life, and with my partner, instead of playing in my head with a phantasm.
PS I’m really quite fun on facebook, don’t friend me if you can’t reasonably expect a friend back.