Facebook asks me the question every day: “What’s on your mind?”. Usually… very little. I’m not as deep as I appear… I just put words together well. There’s not a lot of fanfare for my real thoughts, which usually have very little to do with any grand cosmic revelations, as if I could even fathom what that really means. Today I’m thinking a lot about longevity; about how one minute you can be here, and the next minute… you exist only in the minds of others, and over time, of course, those people slip away as well. Today is the day I’ve officially lived longer than my mother. That’s not a grand feat… all I did was choose to keep breathing. It’s one more meal than my mother had, one day longer than she got… one more sunrise…. a new picture of myself on Facebook that I forever dread sharing. It’s just a day. One day. One day in 53 years, 3 weeks and 5 days. I could break it down to hours and minutes if you like. But the end result is… she left early, I stayed for the second act, I grabbed my popcorn… and here I am in my seat. Maybe I’ll get to see it.. maybe I’ll go home early… but that’s beyond my control. I’m thinking about that time, when some sorry ass draws the short straw and has to get up in front of my oversized fat-ass coffin and say something meaningful about me. And the more I think about it… the more I would rather that someone just be honest. Don’t remember all the good and discard the bad on that day. Tell them about the time I was a selfish dick and I stole your lunch in the 9th grade. I’m not sorry… your mom made the best soup. I kept the thermos. Tell them about all the needless shit and melodrama I caused… or stirred… or people I probably hurt beyond words along the way… but make sure you tell them I’m sorry about all of that and, except for the thermos, I tried hard to make it right when I grew up… in my mid-30’s. After that… try to remember something kind or good about me. My mom was an asshole to me. But that’s okay. I was an asshole to her, too. I would like to think that, had she lived… she would have grown up, late, like I did. Strangely, I don’t hate her like I used to. I’m at the point where I just feel so bad that we never had one ounce of respect for each other. And I find myself searching for that this morning. Took me the better part of two decades to say “I miss you, mom”. And now I wonder if that’s something to feel ashamed over or if I should feel a sense of accomplishment or “growth”. Oh, and before anybody asks… yes… I’m okay, this morning. I have a feeling it’s gonna be a somewhat tolerable day. Of course… I’m gonna block out all of my therapist’s other appointments for the week… but you know what… fuck it… she’ll get over it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Facebook asks me the question every day: “What’s on your mind?”. Usually… very little. I’m not as deep<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":372,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-371","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-blog"],"yoast_head":"\n