Catch 22   Everything I think and say and go on and on about makes so much more sense when you plug me into my weirdo childhood and psycho adolescence. Its its own, straightforward, apologist narrative for all my antics, obsessions, misgivings, priorities. Everything about me then appears so predictable, its lamentable.

But then, if that’s the narrative I went around sales pitching, I could never be anything else to anyone else. I couldn’t create anything new. I couldn’t, very honestly, be able to say, “I can’t remember, anymore. I know it wasn’t good, but it could always have been so much worse. And I’m very grateful for all I learned from those experiences.  I have forgiven , forgotten.. Besides, it seems like a past life, now.” I smile, because I mean it.

In a shoebox of childhood crap, is a pile of poetry. A kid going on and on about the same shit I do, romantic larger than life  soul mate love affairs, getting a PhD, proving she’s not an ‘airhead’, getting through one more day, making it to the end of a week, one more year, and whenever she thought it wouldn’t be over, insisting it please be over. A kid who took her cues for how life works from television shows,  from school, church, and from her parents. A shy, quiet observer, who sometimes screamed into her pillow at night, to punctuate the silence. So pathetically predictable, she was lamentable.


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