Wednesday August 17, 2016
He had been gone for a long time. I think he was fishing with his new wife, Amber. I hadn’t seen him after he left my mother with a hospital bill and a bag of rotting carrots in the fridge. I hoped he and Amber caught all the fish they could carry.
I was mad because of what he did to my mom. I mean even to this day it’s weird to say “did to” as if he did himself to her. He behaved himself to her. He was himself to her seems more accurate. I was mad because he would be so capable of disappointing someone who loved him that much.
I found out this year that my mother was horrible to him too. I didn’t know that before. I guess I needed someone to blame but I needed someone to stay more. I guess I chose wrong.
That’s when he called. He heard my mom wasn’t going to make it and he came home. He came back to what home used to be. He didn’t bring Amber. I respected him more for that. He didn’t bring any fish. I thought that was kind of rude.
Sunday May 31, 2015
You can’t make fire with rain
STOP with the analogies
Just let me LIVE
I am trying so hard, believe me
Yeah, you’re not a martyr at all
You make me seem so horrible
So fucking horrible
I don’t know who this person you see is, but I swear it’s not me
It takes horrible to know horrible
Why would you say that?
I don’t know
Maybe you resist being horrible
because you are horrible
I didn’t mean that
Please don’t leave
Saturday May 31, 2014
overheard on queen st west
“She wasn’t even funny,” you say, “but she thought she was and that was funny so everyone was laughing…” I take a second, close my eyes and see what you’ve said, like I always do. I listen with my eyes closed, so that I’m not overwhelmed by the colour of your eyes, and your front tooth with a tiny chip out of it from that time you got drunk and went go-carting. You don’t have the money to fix it. Or, you do, but, you’ve got other priorities. Like books. And antique chairs that need the paint stripped and the re-painting of the chairs. You’re talking about… Angela. Your one-time friend, one-time collaborator, one-time fuck buddy. Angela. She started doing stand-up and you told her that you’d go check her out and so you did. First you ate chicken fingers and plum sauce and baby carrots and then you got on the streetcar and you listened to Angela tell horrible stories about her life. “I feel bad for her,” I say, and I do. But I don’t. She’s so brave in her discomfort, she’s reckless with her awkward nature and I realize, quietly, like a moment of heartburn – we’re just jealous.