Even though I ultimately set myself up for an
apathetic response to my whole morning beverage debacle, I would hope that
someone could imagine my disappointment when I woke up one Saturday morning to
enjoy a cup of my favourite light roast coffee, only to be let down by its
previously undetected, bland taste. This world class beverage had been the
driving force of my life up until this very morning. It had been the single
most important thing in my life; so much so that its existence facilitated my
ability to endure the soul crushing banality of an uneventful adult life. Even
when I was able to feel the liberating ease that came at the end of a long work
week on a Friday night, I was inexplicably fixated on how enjoyable it would
soon be to sip on a cup of the finest coffee known to man the next morning. Perhaps
it was the pulsating levels of caffeine that triggered my weekly bouts of
optimism, but I believe that my adoration for the hot beverage was deeply
rooted in my desire to be alone.
Wistfully thinking about the
previous Sunday morning with a strange feeling of envy towards my former self,
I remember how delectable my coffee tasted from the first satisfyingly sadistic
scalding sip, to the last remorseful drop. Even the sediment from the stray
grounds collecting at the bottom of the ceramic mug was highly anticipated- regarded
as the rich desert following a bountiful meal. Not to sound braggadocios or to
flaunt my educated palate like a long-winded Master Sommelier, but the powerful
bitterness was accentuated by a pleasant nutty aroma, creating a flavour that
could only be referred to as art. Therefore, I was devastated to taste what
might as well have been a cup of generic instant coffee- diluted and robbed of
any natural flavour.
First attacking my ability to
prepare the coffee correctly rather than taint the reputation of a well-established
brew, I dumped the shameful concoction down the stainless-steel kitchen drain
and adamantly unhinged the glass jar in which I stored my whole coffee beans.
Breaking my rule of grinding only enough beans to equal a rounded tablespoon of
grounds (enough to brew one single two hundred and fifty millilitre mug to
perfection), I scooped the toasted beans into the grinder and tried once again
to revive the legacy of my award winning, South American libation. Once the
water’s temperature rose to a rapid boil, spewing sizzling water droplets over
the rim of the metal pot, I let the water flow onto the loosely settled grounds
at the bottom of the French press, instigating a reaction that would soon yield
the world’s most cherished drink. As I firmly pressed down on the plunger with
the palm of my right hand after ten minutes of impatience, I poured the caramel
coloured liquid into a clean mug and watched as the steamed twirled up from the
still surface. Staring at what very well might have been an unfaithful lover or
a traitorous business partner, I trembled as I reached for the cool ceramic
handle, raising it to my eager lips in hopes of putting my fears of discontent
at bay. Slurping the coffee as to allow the beverage to wash over each of the
four taste areas of my tongue, I was hit with an irreversible sense of dismay;
my beloved coffee had turned on me.
Speechless as I poured the pipping
hot cup of disappointment down the drain, feeling a type of sorrow I assume
someone would feel if they had lost a loved one, resentment shadowed my
sadness. I could not fathom the peak of narcissism that Cass reached by ending
our relationship on the same day that my favourite drink lost its ability to
lift my spirits. Never believing in coincidences, I was convinced that her
departure was planned knowing that I would soon learn to hate my coffee,
thereby ruling out any means of consolation. Although I am still uncertain as
to how Cass- with her mediocre talents, lack of foresight, and minimal
intelligence- would have predicted the ultimate expiration date of my coffee
beans, I will not underestimate her devious ways.
Very much like the newly discovered,
unsatisfactory taste of my coffee, Cass is also unforgivably bitter,
distasteful, and repulsively bold. Unfortunately, I was not able to merely pour
her down the drain and search for an improved blend, rather I was forced to
watch her leave with every object in the apartment- except for the French
press, which too seems like a conniving way to teach me a lesson. Moreover, the
loss of my favourite coffee will undoubtedly have much more of a negative
impact on my weekly routine than Cass ever could.
While the morning beverage encouraged me to face the
day with an uncharacteristic sense of invincibility, Cass would stare at me
impatiently from across the breakfast nook with her piercingly blue eyes,
making it known that she was not receiving enough of my attention. Whenever I
would confront her on the obviously condemning stare, she would claim that she
was merely lost in thought and enjoyed watching me enjoy something so
irreplaceable. That would then send me into a frenzy of agitation- as per her
coy agenda- and ruin the rest of my long-sought-after, Sunday.
Incapable of letting go of those dreadful Sundays
spent in absolute silence with Cass overtly upset following our weekly
argument, it still drives me mad to think of how self-involved she would act.
With no regard for my happiness or need for relaxation and contemplation, I
would be forced to abandon any hope of spending a few solitary minutes on my
own self-care and instead fixate on her inexplicable need for pity. Come to
think of it, the hours of teary eyed deep contemplation were most likely
utilized to plan the perfect way to leave my life- with emphasis on my Sunday
mornings- in shambles. Despite her shallow façade, perhaps she did possess a
bit of forethought after all. Having said that, it is hard to believe her
constant claims regarding my apparent inability to give her the slightest bit
of credit; I could now say the same to her if I had even a morsel of desire to
reconnect with her.
Now that I have gotten her infuriatingly persistent
flaws off my chest, I will not give her the upper hand by continuing to share
my attention with her memory for another second, as much as she would love to
silently boast about how much I admired her social standing, professional
accomplishment, and classically beautiful features. Therefore, I will not
inflate her already stretched ego by allowing her to manifest herself in the
forefront of my mind any longer. Having taken away my coffee and virtually all
our shared furnishings, I will not willingly donate my focus- not to mention
the limited space with which I retain cherished memories.
Before I could channel my unruly focus onto something
less aggravating- thereby preventing a typhoon of unwelcomed memories revolving
around my time spent with Cass- from overflowing into the shallow depths of my
mind, the thousands of intrusive memories equalled the shards of glass
shattered on the kitchen floor. Having transferred my aggression towards Cass
and her manipulative personality onto my blameless French press, it felt my
misdirected wrath as I impulsively hurled it onto the white tiles of the
kitchen floor. Too many appliances and household items alike have admittedly
been destroyed during what could only be described as temporary episode of
anger-induced insanity.
Ashamed of my irrational destruction, I stood still on
the far side of the kitchen to ponder my next moves, both physically and
existentially. Fearful of the transparent shards of glass that camouflaged
nicely on top of the meticulously clean tiled floor, I dreaded the inevitable
pain that would ensue once I collected even the smallest shred of glass with
the soles of my bare, pedicured feet. As I carefully planned my steps with a
level of stealth that is only matched by the most limber of contortionists, I
dreaded the other kind of pain that would soon overwhelm my sensitive spirit.
Although this pain I am referring to is predominantly emotional in nature, it
does indeed pack a powerful sting typically felt in the abdomen and chest. This
multi-faceted pain is a result of an impending hopelessness felt in the
aftershock of losing a tolerated companion and essential coffee brewer. With
both of those things absent in my life, there was little left to look forward
to in terms of excitement and satisfaction; then there were the positive
emotions I would never again feel after having lost Cass, like security and
comfort.
Dancing around in a well choreographed manner,
avoiding the invisible razor sharp pieces of glass, I was hit with an
unreasonable amount of grief. Grief was a foreign color on my palette of
emotions, previously felt only once in my life at the tender age of seven upon
hearing of my guinea pig, Stanley’s untimely murder (taken from me after his overcompensating,
yet brave heart naively battled old lady Vargas’ blood thirsty tabby cat, Edward
on an unforgettably miserable July day). Usually replaced by useful emotions
like envy and skepticism, grief never seemed to facilitate a functional
purpose, instead encouraging a sense of futile vulnerability. Therefore, I was
caught off guard when I was forced to observe remnants of my recently departed
coffee maker and partner tossed all over my apartment- pieces of glass printed
with disorganized letters that spelled out “coffee” in a dyslexic order and
tacky feminine knickknacks invaded my field of vision from all angles. Wallowing
in the strange grief that selfishly commandeered my once pragmatic disposition
like an unexpected act of emotional terrorism, the pain steadily washed over my
body as though I was in some sort of mortal danger. Fearing I was on the cusp
of experiencing the more familiar sensation of a panic attack, I was reassured
to spot the heel-sized smudges of blood trailing behind me; the pain was
thankfully a result of a tangible, physical injury rather than an
uncontrollably abstract mental crisis.
Still surrounded by veritable landmines of unnoticeable
broken glass, my left heel continued to bleed quite profusely as the
substantial piece of French press glass jostled the torn skin with every
ill-advised motion. Overwhelmed by my inability to evade such a trivial
inconvenience, I was appreciative to have never received a calling to join the
military- my participation in any line of national defence would have obviously
had unfortunate consequences for myself, my fellow soldiers, and my country.
Humbled by the defeating predicament I had myopically created for myself, I
tried with every ounce of resourcefulness to rise above the unfortunate
circumstances and escape relatively unscathed. I then manoeuvered my body in
such a way to optimize balance by pantomiming a nerve wrecking promenade on a
sky high tight rope, then swiftly rotating my hips to gain enough momentum to
propel my injured foot securely in the kitchen sink.
Stretched out beyond any assumed comfort known to man,
I utilized the dormant yoga skills once taught to me by Cass’ overzealously
organic Pilates instructor, aptly named Herb. Although Herb’s excessively
optimistic outlook on life was more naïve than that of an ambitious lemming
with a bird complex, he did provide me with some basic flexibility techniques
that allowed me to bend my torso forward to nearly a ninety-degree angle long
enough to retrieve the deeply penetrated shard of glass from my swollen flesh.
Instantly remembering my irrational fear of blood with impeccably inopportune
timing, I became unnervingly light headed, which prompted me to briefly close
my eyes in an attempt to ward off the subsequent fainting that would
undoubtedly result in the acquisition of many more flesh wounds from the jagged
glass below. Despite my attempts at maintaining consciousness, it became
apparent that Herb forgot to mention that a lack of vision, even for a split
second, would greatly compromise my balance and disrupt the delicate pose I had
manifested.
Foiled by my own fear of fainting, my seemingly
secured foot slipped from the slick steel sink, hurling my unsteady body to the
glass covered floor. As I fell onto the newly crushed glass, my shoulder made
first contact with the serrated edges, making my supple skin feel as though it
had been singed with an entire pack of lit cigarettes. The next body part to
endure the pain resulting from my unregulated fit of rage was my protruding
hip, which acted as a pin cushion for a single, slender shard of glass.
Subsequently immobilized by the pain and isolated humiliation, my body laid on
the floor pierced with multiple pieces of glass, unwilling to budge a
millimeter to the left or right in fear of introducing yet another wound to my
traumatized limbs. Although my body was immobilized, my mind exploited the
inactivity to revisit the dread of having to face the following days alone and
uncaffeinated.
Offering the slightest bit of comfort as I laid
defeated on the cold tiles of my unfurnished kitchen, I caught a glance of the
only thing mounted on the off-white adjacent wall: a calendar. On this
calendar- adorned with a subjectively whimsical picture of a cartoon penguin
sunbathing atop a floating ice cap- the bold red font reminded me that it was
in fact the month of July. Although that Sunday had been left vacant, the
following day was filled in with Cass’ nauseatingly perfect handwriting, indicating
that we were supposed to be celebrating our anniversary that day. The reason I
was overjoyed with this oversight was because we had an inconvenient ritual
each year on the anniversary of our first date that involved us returning to
the elegant, yet overpriced restaurant where I first chose to bring her.
In a self-loathing attempt to simulate wealth and a
higher degree of class, I insisted that we dine at the Italian bistro Golosità, where the romantic ambiance comes at an exorbitant price. As if it wasn’t
enough of a shock to pay for Cass’ expensive taste on a first date, she found
it necessary to order the exact same dishes as we did on our first date; she
claimed that it was romantic, but I am certain it was just her passive
aggressive way of reminding me of the extravagent lifestyle I kept her from
enjoying. Therefore, being the master of patronization she had grown to be,
Cass would start off the meal by ordering the $17 proscuitto and aged cheese
platter for an appetizer, which was piled high with enough artery clogging
trans fats to induce a fatal myocardial infarction right there on the neatly
pressed table cloth. To wash the elegant assortment of fat down her gullet, she'd order two glasses
of Italian red wine totalling a whopping $32 even though I much prefer to drink
free flat water while in public as to avoid embarrassing purple stains on my
teeth. When she'd arrive at the entree, she'd point at the veal parmesan
despite her apparent love of cute baby farm animals and the even more disturbing
combined price of $63. Then, to frivolously spend my last hard earned dollars,
she would actually order the dessert special costing $16 that consisted of two
cups of espresso accompanied by two separate, substantial pieces of tiramisu
cake. Every year my bill would come to at least $128 plus tax- not to mention
the rate of inflation that was of course taken into account when the
restauranteur re-evaluated his already unafforable menu.
As much as it pained me to spend what took me hours upon hours of
mind-numbling work to earn in a matter of a forty-five minute, inauthentic Italian
meal, it baffled me to know that Cass disregarded the finances of the under
paid waitress whose tip suffered greatly. Reduced from the standard fifteen
percent to a dismal six percent due to my inability to charge the entire meal
on my nearly maxed out credit card, the real victim was our server. Of course
she would flaunt her own success by offering to pay each year, jabbing at what
was left of my compromised masculinity, but I would never let her have that
over me- I would much rather eat instant noodles with synthetic chicken
flavoured seasoning powder for the rest of the month than allow her to bid on
my self-worth.
Suffice it to say, I was relieved to know that I would not have to foot the
bill on this year’s extravagent meal. The only peculiarity about Cass’ decision
to leave the day of our anniversary was that I would have expected her to at
least enjoy one last free dinner before jumping to her next meal ticket. Except
of course if her plan had been a strategy established immediately following our
last anniversary outing, pre-meditating one last blow to my self-esteem, while reminding
me once and for all that I would never earn enough to satisfy the lavish needs
of a woman of her stature. Justifiably so, I was not a man of means by any
means. Due to my inexplicable tendency to follow a misdirected career path
paved with substance rather than superficial wealth, I stunted my potential of
becoming the world’s next troublingly youthful billionaire by aspiring to be a
writer.
Having noticed at a young age that I was exceedingly better with the
written word than the spoken word, I chose to disregard the philosophy of
public school systems of trying to improve a child’s weaknesses, while
ignorning the strengths- paying little to no attention to the innate skills one
is born with as they fade with time. Therefore, I began to write every thought
that crossed my juvenile mind, no matter how derivative or uninspiring. This
led me to work on my craft to construct sentences and subsequent stories with
perfectly chosen words, like a bricklayer would with chisled chunks of concrete
with the intention of eventually building an exquisite, completely unique
skycraper. While I scribbled down what seemed to me as untapped genius, other
children socialized as schoolyard children do- experimenting with their
newfound sexuality with harmless cheek kisses, developing friendships with the
idea that they would last a lifetime, and simply enjoying the blissful accountability
of youth, remaining blissfully ignorant to the debilitating accountability that
waited for them as adults.
I would watch my classmates with an undeserved sense of superiority,
questioning their motives for partaking in such unproductive activities. Having
felt as though I had already begun working towards being an iconic writer,
ensuring my name would live on in infiny like the greats of ours or any other
generation; at the time time, the greats consisted of Seuss, Munsch, and
Silverstein. In self-condemning retrospect, it was I who squandered my youth by
partaking in a futile endeavor. Had I been given the foresight to appreciate
the importance of socialization, developing at an early age the skills to
establish healthy friendships and partnerships, I might have been able to one
day avoid laying on a kitchen floor, mirroring the structural integrity of my
once sturdy coffee press.
Shattered by the realization that I had once again been left in isolation,
alone with the one personality I truly could not stand in existence, I opened
my eyes and took a fresh look at the obstacle course of broken glass that laid
around me. Being the most resourceful after deeming a predicament impossible, I
glanced towards the tiles leading up to the open door frame and clearly saw a
staggered path free from dangerous debris, instilling a substantiated shimmer
of hope that I would not be left to die on that ill-fated kitchen floor. Using
my right shoulder blade as leverage, I propped my body up from the floor, high
enough off the tile to maneouver the palms of my hands underneath my wounded
hip, then used what little upper body strength I had to mimic a sprinter’s pose
at a starting line. Once I regained my balance, I pressed off my right foot and
dashed onto the open path, alternating feet as I jumped through the glass,
landing my feet on each bare square foot of tile like a solider training with
discarded truck tires. With much effort, I cleared the kitchen floor, leaving a
trail of dried blood on the bare tiles behind me before entering into the safe
zone of the living room, free from any hazardous materials that could
compromise my health and safety.
Reaching what felt like a demilitarized zone, I breathed a breath of relief
as my mind flooded with the traumatic memories of what I had just experienced.
Unable to view the veritable crime scene ever again, I closed to kitchen door
and locked the door knob as if I would never need to frequent that room of my
apartment ever again. If I had the know-how and tools, I would have welded the
locking mechanism, permanently closing that room until the end of time. As
ideal and practical a simple act of metal fusion would be, I believe that
action- however justifiable- would have led to the forfeiture of my security
deposit. With my recent past literally behind closed doors, I ventured into the
barren living room to witness the emptiness that Cass had vindictively left for
me. Wandering around the central room of the apartment, noticing how misleading
the landlord’s interpretation of “cozy” truly was in the online rental
advertisement, I longed for my reclining leather couch to rest my aching back.
Not only did Cass rob me of my furniture, she ripped away the very comfort
that allowed me to relax away the stressors of my day. Leave it to her to have
more than one purpose for her malicious actions- the Queen of ulterior motives.
Wallowing in my defeat, having lost the war against Cass’ unrelenting force of
psychological warfare, I sat down on the carpeted living room floor and leaned
my back against the closet bi-fold door. Granted I could have found a slightly
more sturdy wall to prop up my injured body, I found the crease on the center
of the door to provide a bit of wiggle room for my undoubtedly twisted spine.
Sitting with my legs sprawled out before me, hands tossed onto the
bloodstained carpet with my palms facing
the pristinely painted egg shell ceiling, I was the portrait of a victim.
Rightfully feeling the pain that resulted from a far too familiar sense of
vulnerability, I tried to self-soothe in order to ward off the unbecoming tears
that would depict even the strongest man as broken.
Unable to trick myself into believing that I had even the slightest
comprehension of what a coping mechanism was and how it was utilized, I engaged
in the insane act of lying to myself. It was admittedly much harder to lie to
myself than to others, as my inner monologue had become quite cynical of my sincerity
over the years. I told myself that I was a resilient individual, equipped with
the emotional stability to thwart even the most debilitating situations and
that Cass would regret her malevolent scheme if she would have taken the time
to truly acknowledge my strong, unwavering character. Nearly satisfied with my
own self-directed charade, my dignity was once again demolished by the
universe. If the universe were a character in a classic folk tale, it would be
the trickster- always interfering with the hero’s journey, providing comic
relief to the audience, all the while making the protagonist question his very
purpose in life. The screws that connected the two panels of the closet door on
which I had been leaning against broke free from the poorly installed hinges,
hurling my unsupported head swiftly against the pseudo wooden door.
Laying with half of my body in the closet, with my head slightly tilted on
the slanted door, the other half of my body laid still, hoping not to disturb
the flimsy structure. Fearing another injury caused by my own carelessness, I
could only lay catatonic and think about previous instances when I was led to
feel inferior due to my poor construction abilities. Although I was not at fault
for the flimsy closet door, since it was installed prior to moving in and was
most probably built with cheap materials by unaccountable day labourers, making
it unable to withstand the weight of a man’s body leaning against it, I must
take the blame for several other pieces of poorly built furniture. In my
defence, I never willingly accepted the job of assembling furniture, as I am
fully aware of my downfall in the area of basic construction and visual puzzles.
Rather, it was Cass who insisted that I build each piece of furniture she
bought as a way to cut costs. Although she insincerely suggested that she pay
the supplemental cost for the department store employees to build the furniture
upon delivery, it was very much implied that if I didn’t offer to assemble it
myself, I would be immasculated in the face of other, more capable men.
Once again avoiding a chance for Cass to shine a light on my shortcomings,
I would begrugingly take on the duty of building what might as well have been
life size puzzles, delivered with an inappropriate amount of puzzle pieces.
Before the assembling would even commence, I would already be at wits end
wrestling with the obscene amount of packaging that wrapped around the
individual pieces. Starting with the monstrous cardboard box that held the
contents- one big enough to comfortably ship an African elephant overseas- I
would be at odds with the unnecessary number of industrial staples and frivolous
amounts of packing tape. The entire package looking like a child’s ridiculous
attempt at wrapping his first Christmas gift for his mother or father.
Once the unpenetrable encasement was ripped away in a thousand pieces, each
measuring no bigger than my thumb- meanwhile cutting every inch of my forearms
with irritatingly slender slices- I would have a miniature anxiety attack as I
pawed through the ecological disaster consisting of several pounds of foam.
Ranging in a variety of shapes and sizes for no apparent reason other than to
cover both my entire being and apartment with a blizzard of hazardous synthetic
fibers, the flammable bits would fuel my escalating rage. Finally, after
looking like a self-harming snowman, I would then retrieve the assortment of
wood and plastic pieces, accompanied by a hefty bag filled to the brim with an
intimidating amount of screws and one toy sized Allen key. If this wasn’t
enough to send me into a frenzy of self-doubt, I would naively open the
deceivingly thin instruction booklet, comprised of a maximum of four
illustrations. First flipping to the end of this disheartening picture book for
masochistic adults- as if the final image would instill optimism in an
otherwise overwhelmed demeanor- I would glance at the images leading up to the
last, overdrawn with numbers and ambiguously directed arrows.
Defeated before I could even connect the first two oblong pieces, I would
persevere until all but five screws and one seeming important piece of wood was
left next to the pile of packing debris. Then, not only would I have to wallow
in my inability to fit in the snug masculine gender role society expected of
me, I would have the displeasure of looking at the structurally unstable
television stand every night until taken from me from a cold partner-
fulfilling its purpose as a ready-to-assemble reminder of my own perpetual
failure. The kicker was that Cass knew the details of my mental illness as an
adolescent and still pushed me to the brink of relapsing into a compulsive
disorder by ensuring that I was made aware of imperfections. Even worse, I was
reminded of imperfections that could have otherwise been perfect if a capable
man had taken over and replaced me.
In all honesty, most of my mental abnormalities have laid dormant since my
formative years, after much time spent scolded by authoritative figures and
mocked by peers. I must say- intentionally fanning the flames of my sweltering
ego- that I was successful in combatting debilitating thoughts and actions by
merely taking control of my mind, thereby creating new paths with which it
could work normally and efficiently. By the age of thirteen I came to realize
that I was approaching a level of social maladjustment only matched by those
teenagers enjoying their high school years in a locked psychiatric ward. Up
until that point, my thought patterns were completely justified by the fact
that I hadn’t any friends of a similar age to realize how bizarre I had become.
Stuck in a world with certain overzealous rules and values that I had created
for myself, I became a slave to my own fabricated reality and quickly grew
exhausted from the pressure I had placed upon myself.
Confidently passing the blame for my previously unhealthy mental state to
my parents, I had grown up with a harsh type of discipline that would turn any
innately typical person into a broken, beaten down man. This cruel and unusual
type of discipline was used to deter me from thinking or doing something out of
line, ranging in extremes from leaving an untidy bed in the morning to
ruminating about ending my own life. Whatever the scenario, my mother and
father would approach the situation in the only way they knew how, with the
tools their parents had given them as children. Not to justify their abusive
behaviour by once again passing blame like a hot potato, but I believe the
person who should take the blame for generations of torment would be one of my
sadistic ancestors, as this form of abuse is definitely the only inheritance
anyone in my family has ever received. To clarify before I make a mountain out
of a molehill by implying that my daily punishments were more severe than one
might be led to expect, I was not the victim of corporal punishment, but a
torturous crime much more traumatizing: guilt.
Having been subjected to the emotionally traumatizing and socially
debilitating effects of passive aggressive parenting and excessive guilt, I
entered into an important chapter of my life excessively self-aware. Since
teenagers are already subjected to an inner turmoil that has never been or
never again will be felt over the course of one’s unnecessarily long life, my
struggle had reached epic proportions feeling as though I had a persistent
civil war being fought between my combattive mind and oppressed body. While my
pesky little quirk was beginning to blossom to a full-fledged mental disorder,
I was embarking on a trecherous journey into high school, where the anguish of
adolescent development would exacerbate my worsening condition.
In addition to the hormonal struggle that occurs when taking my first- not
to mention hardest- steps toward manhood, I was subjected to the social right
of passage that every man takes. Generalizing the social development of the
entire male population to mirror my own in an attempt to normalize the
behaviour of my suspectedly deviant classmates, I fear that my experience may
not have been typical- or even socially acceptable by any society’s standards.
Starting on my very first day of class as a high school freshman, I entered
through the intimidatingly large entrance doors of Thompson High School to be
promptly greeted by the swift flick of a senior boy’s wrist into my unprotected
genitals. Acting as a reliable indicator for what I was going to endure over
the next five years, the radiating pain that shot upwards through my pelvic
bone into my stomach made me feel as though my appendix was about to burst.
Overwhelmed by the inescapable nausea originating from my afflicted testicles,
I was brought to my knees, crippled by a single sadistic act of pointless
teenage tomfoolery.
As my attacker stood over me like a hunter over a prized ten point trophy
buck, I laid incapacitated by the unanticipated blow. He then snickered and
quickly received praise from another like-minded- albeit savage- seventeen year
old boy, acknowledging his impecable ability to bring a boy half his size and
weight to his knees via genital trauma. Once the pain subsided and the
humiliation replaced its debilitating effects, I slowly picked myself up off
the ground and kept my focus on my feet in hopes of avoiding eye contact with
another Neanderthal disguised as a harmless student. Moreover, the chances of
receiving unwanted attention from the school’s female population were greatly
reduced if I tried my very best to appear inconspicuous. From that point on, my
various black leather dress shoes were the only thing I saw as I walked through
the halls of that dreaded school over the course of the next five years.
Having acquired a submissive, yet effective way of protecting both my pride
and vulnerable genitals from the physically superior, presumably athletic, male
student body, I was able to coast through high school only suffering from the
burden of my own mental state. As I believe suicide is a much more dignified
way of dying in contrast to being murdered, I believe I retained much
self-respect by allowing only myself to be my biggest bully. As I grew both
physically and emotionally, my condition continued to worsen. What had started
out as a mild inconvenience by counting the number of tiles on the waxed
hallway floors or reciting one single verse of The Beatles’ song “She Said, She
Said”, eventually turned into a condition that prevented me from enjoying a
single moment throughout any given day. By the time I reached the eleventh
grade, standing at my present underdeveloped height of five foot five inches
and persistently overdeveloped weight of one hundred and ninety pounds, I had
emersed myself in my obsessions and compulsions.
Unable to function as any normative sixteen year old boy, I spent every
waking hour fixating on neglibile issues that I suspect never cross a normative
person’s mind. Each morning I would wake up with the dread of facing another
exhausting day as the defective man I had let myself become. Delicately stepping out of my bed as to not
jostle my meticulously placed bed sheets, I would avoid potential hours of
fidgeting with the linens to leave them perfectly straight for when I returned
that night. I would then arrive at school at least fort-five minutes late most
mornings due to my anal tendencies; not including the nights I had enjoyed
vivid imaginings of fictious, yet breathtaking women in my dreams, which
resulted in the subsequent time it took me to wash my sheets the next morning
and to deal with the shame of my body’s neglected sexuality. Consequently,
before my first class of the day even started, I had filled my own mind with
enough unwarranted guilt and insecurity to ensure that I could not focus on
another topic for the rest of the day.
Looking for even the slightest bit of comfort or reassurance that my
sexuality was not unhygienic or a symptom of an aberrant personality, I turned
to my equally dysfunctional parents in hopes of gaining some long awaited
relief. To my dismay, they reinforced my belief that indulging my lesser urges
was barbaric, adding that if I were to develop a strong sense of self-control,
I would basically benefit from the strength resulting from sexual frustration.
Taking their extremist perspective to heart, I continued to repress my urges
and suffer the humility following my bi-weekly noctural emission. In fact, the
argument my parents delivered so eloquently led me to live a life of celibacy
and self-restraint only endured by men of the cloth. Although it proved to be
hard- both figuratively and literally- for the majority of my young adulthood,
I used the majority of my energy to avoid sexual situations. It was only until
Cass took it upon herself to act as a sexual martyr by guiding her inexperienced,
fumbling boyfriend through the ins and outs of love making. This of course was
another way in which she held the upper hand, subsequently instilling an
unshakable sense of inferiority, but I digress from the point that my high
school experience had provided little preparation for what was to come.
Shortly before graduation, after many semesters of subpar test scores and
self-deprecation, my distracted presence in school had made my academic career
an insult to the world of academia. Subjected to the shortsighted philosophy
held by my school of “no student left behind”, my teachers happily forged my
transcripts as to move me on. Thereby avoiding being forced to deal with my
persistent ticks- primarily consisting of clearing my throat as the thought of
phlegm disgusted me to my core and fluttering of my fingers to rub off
imaginary grains of dirt from my hands. Unfortunately, I was given the
grandiose delusion that I had been able to succeed regardless of my lack of
efforts in studying, leading me to believe- like many undeservingly privileged
individuals of my Millenial generation- that I could achieve greatness
effortlessly.
Amidst an agressive mental condition, I left the never before recognized
security of being a high school student and ventured into what I naively
considered to be the “real world”. Despite a lack of career prospects or admission
into an accredited college, I continued to live with my parents, perpetuating
my foibles, invariably incapacitating my personal development. I found that the
only way I could escape the unpleasantness of my being was to engage in
creative writing. Finding it quite therapeutic, I would write both fiction and
non-fiction, describing disturbed characters- who may or may not have been
stand-ins for myself- in plotlines where they eventually prove all the skeptics
in their lives wrong by succeeding. At first, my irrational complusions would
turn a five hundred word story into a week long endeavor, as my need to write
everything by hand rather than efficiently using a computer proved to be quite
time consuming. Moreover, I would waste hours upon hours on puncutation, since
it was a necessity to have perfectly spherical periods, symmetrical quotation
marks, and vertically aligned colons (with the help of a ruler and my father’s
level he once used to hang a crucifix over the doorway in the kitchen).
Although
my writing had initially been a simple form of escapism, doubling as an
effective coping mechanism, I was extremely lucky to have written a suprisingly
uplifting blog about one of my characters committing suicide. This posting had
pulled the attention of an editor at the local newspaper, The Harrowing Herald, who reached out and offered me a staff
position in the obituary department since a seasoned writer had just received a
promotion to the “Classifieds” section. Naturally, I jumped at the convenient
opportunity and emersed myself in the business of describing the lives of the
recently departed. Exceling in the field, I was given accolades for my ability
to transform a innately unfortunate circumstance into an entertaining story,
filled with hope and passion. This previously undiscovered talent was even a
shock to myself, as I would have never referred to myself as an optimist, let
alone a self-procclaimed lover of life, but it was nonetheless present, using
it to gain medicore financial stability. Most
of my work follows a proven formula to enlighten an otherwise disheartened
audience: beginning with a mundane anecdote involving the deceased, followed by
a brief shout-out to family members in order of importance. The most well
received order of family members is typically spouse, children, grandchildren,
parents, then finally siblings in the case that the deceased in fact had any of
these family members. If not, then I would list aunts/uncles, cousins, and
friends. Recently, I had the literary challenge of writing about a young man
who led a solitary life and managed to remain estranged from every single
person who could be expected to love him; in the end I simply fabricated the
presence of a beloved golden retriever puppy and focused most of the story on
the imaginary dog named, Franklin. Not my finest bout of creativity, but I did
receive some positive feedback from my editor, which is all that really matters
at the end of the day.
One
might think that emphasizing the brilliance of a person’s life would bring
about a type of existential reassurance, perhaps allowing me to pursue a life
of fulfillment despite various obstacles and occassions of defeat along the
way. This may be true for someone who looks at the world without paranoia eyes,
but for myself, I view my job as a futile way of bringing meaning to virtually
insignificant lives by summarizing a few glamourous details in no more than
five hundred words. Forced to fit a minimum of eleven obituaries per page and a
maximum of thirteen, as to allow for adequate room for the bridal announcements
on the following page but also to maintain a steady cash flow from grieving
families wishing to share the memory of a loved one, I squeeze in the memories
of the recently deceased in tight, pre-destined spaces, like the rows in a
cemetary. My intention is not to beat the point to death, rather to make it
clear that our lives will be but a footnote alongside many others, who barely
receive the recognition for the lives they have led. Genuinely or
superficially, morally or corruptly, generously or selfishly, it hardly matters
in the end because I will find a way to turn a lifelong journey into a generic
newspaper advertisement.
Now
that I have painted a dismal illustration of my pesimistic demeanor, I
understand that it might be difficult to comprehend how Cass could have found
my disdain for life to be charming or even bearable. Noting that a person who
is drawn to such a morbid personality could not be as well adjusted as she has
led herself to believe, my involvement in her life was merely a result of a
tragic situation and would not have existed without her temporary absence of a
lust for life. When I had been given the assignment to cover a last minute
submission, I apathetically glossed over the tombstone details of Max Sinclair,
not paying any special attention to his lost fight against some sort of
aggressive cancer or to the fact that he left behind a daughter. At that point,
Cass Sinclair was just an arbitrary name; not yet carrying the tarnished
memories and resentment it now has.
I
specifically remember had completed the entire five hundred word memoriam in
seven minutes as I had been running close to the five o’clock evening deadline.
Disregarding the fact sheet that came along with the article order and
confirmation of payment, I instead opted to let my underutilized creative
talents shine by fabricating a story involving Cass’ father in an emotionally
exploitive, however fictional, tale of his international disaster relief work
post-university. It was undoubtedly a bold move, one that could have compromised
my integrity as a pandering journalist, but I didn’t give it a second thought
since my level of accountability was relatively low due to the pseudonym I had
given myself upon accepting the position. For all intents and purposes, Ryan
Steele would have had to take the fall for my embelishments and would feel the
justifiable wrath from the Sinclair family and Harrowing Herald legal department alike.
What
had felt like a fortunate coincidence at the time- only now to remember it as
the settlement of my long deserved karmic debt- my disrepectful literary
improvisation was viewed by the mournful daughter as reality. Having no other
immediate relative or family friends to disprove my fictional story of her
father’s philanthropy, her wistfully suggestible mind chose to embrace the lie
and reach out to Ryan Steele to show appreciation for his kind, beautifully
crafted words. When her phone call had been transferred to my desk from my
editor’s office line, I figured my short-lived career as a casualty commentator
had come to a grinding halt. To my surprise, the voice I heard on the line did
not portray a raw resentment of my actions, but a tearful sense of gratitude.
Following her narcissitic rant detailing her loss to a perfect stranger, Cass
confidently offered to buy me dinner to express her appreciation. This was the
first of many instances when her subtle condescension and insincere generosity
ended in her receiving a free meal.
It
is quite remarkable how one’s mind can aimlessly wander into the dangerous
depths of the subconscious equivalent of a hostile ocean, flooding the mind
until it suffocates from unwanted memories. Since Cass had taken her tacky,
wall-mounted digital clock with her before leaving, I couldn’t determine how
long I had been laying on the broken closet door, reminiscing about occassions
when I had ignored my dependable intuition and followed my illogcial heart into
treacherous predicaments. However much time had passed, it had been long enough
to seize my back, preventing me from standing upright without causing an
enormous amount of pain to my pinched nerves. Looking around the claustrophic
enclosure in hopes of locating a forgotten personal response service aparatus,
the closet offered few resources. Using my only functional arm, I rumaged
through the pile of bent metal clothes hangers that had been mangled on impact.
Unsure as to what I was looking for or why I continued to introduce my hand to
a painful mountain of sharp steel, I uncovered what could only be referred to
as my only salvation and source of consolation in that dire time.
Grateful
that my unbearable presence had made Cass leave in such a rush, forcing her to
mindlessly collect her top of the line Down winter coats without first checking
the pockets. Fortunately, she had forgotten to double check the closet floor
for her medicine. Being quite charcteristic of Cass, her habit of leaving her
possessions behind was prevalent every time we would check out of a hotel.
Without fail, she would forget to pack her make-up or hair straightener and
wouldn’t even call the hotel to see if it had been stolen by a housekeeper-
truly indicative of her disregard for the value of expensive trivialities.
Despite those times I was outraged by her carelessness, I was able to benefit
from her act of absent mindedness as I helped myself to her pill bottle filled
to the brim with pre-rolled medical marijuana joints.
Having
been no stranger to the off-label use of marijuana, I had no aversion to the
psychotropic plant. Although my functional social conscious had never allowed
me to deceive a doctor into believing that I would be a suitable candidate for
the prescription like my former companion- who deceptively told her doctor that
she had developed a difficulty in falling asleep at night following the death
of her father- I protected my ethics by illegally acquiring the drug outside
dispensaries. Initially I had begun smoking marijuana as a way to facilitate my
writing the day I got hired at The Harrowing Herald as a way to combat my
inefficient compulsions. Not to say that it helped ring out my creative juices
onto a concisely formatted page, but it did allow me to overcome my irrational
need to save a document at least five times before starting a new line as a
safe guard against dreaded computer crashes. In addition, it helped me focus on
what I was writing rather than being fixated on the non-existent dirt on my
hands or the disturbing sensation of my ruffled jeans rubbing in between the
crevasse of my backside.
Since
I had grown impatient with the day, having inflicted a great deal of pain onto
my body, I desired to surround myself with a reality in which a sober mind just
could not offer. I retrieved one substantial joint from the pill bottle,
depleting Cass’ stash by a tenth- drawing the conclusion from the prescription
label that each joint contained a gram of the miracle weed. Summoning strength
to my upper extremities, I fumbled into my pockets to find a match or a lighter
to quickly ignite the tightly rolled pot as its physical and mental healing
properties now served an urgent purpose. As I searched for anything that was
capable of creating even the dimmest spark, I feared that my awful day was
about to continue with unfortunate consistency. Running out of available
resources, I snatched two broken pieces of metal coat hangers and began rubbing
them together with a furious dedication, unrealistically assuming that my
feeble arms could create enough friction to ignite a flame- the only friction I
had created was between my the cellulite on my biceps and the fatty tissue on
my pectorals, leading to a level of discomfort my poorly maintained physique
experienced entirely way too often.
I
had finally grown tired of the excessive waste of energy used to light my
contraband and decided to consume it in a manner that came naturally, by
ingesting it. I held it close to my face, trying to capture the gleam of light
from within the dark, enclosed closet space and carefully began to tear at the
glued seam. As the thin paper ripped down from the cardboard filter, I could
see a green shimmer of hope compacted in a delightful row. I was even
undeterred by Cass’ disgusting need to add tobacco to the otherwise perfect
substance- her tampering was downright disrespectful to the cultivator, like
adding a sweetened carbonated beverage to a vintage French wine made from
delectable grapes or skim milk to a bold Colombian coffee brewed with sun
ripened beans. Once the king sized rolling paper was torn right down the
middle, I pressed the paper against my salivating bottom lip until it stuck and
scooped its entire contents into my mouth as if I were enjoying a shucked
oyster.
Displeased
by the delayed gratification that comes with ingesting marijuana, I wished I
could have felt the immediate effects felt by smoking the drug, but remained
positive that I would eventually feel its calming influence. Without any other
option, I waited impatiently for the THC to kick in, frustrated by the
unnerving lack of distraction within my dull closet. Incredibly bored and fed
up with the lack lustre reality that surrounded me, I reached my strained arm
into my uncomfortably tight designer jeans that Cass had bought for me in a
blatantly rude attempt to body shame my oversized figure. I pulled out my cell
phone to browze my digital photo album. Looking toward a sure fire way to kill
a few minutes before the marijuana provided some relief from my mental
exhaustion and physical agony, I very much enjoyed going through my pictures,
deleting those I did not care to remember anymore. The mass deleting of photos
involving Cass or a time or place that reminded me of her was satisfying- much
more than any couples or grief counsellor could offer post breakup.
I
took ample time to determine whether each photo was worthy of remaining in my
album or getting deleted, simultaneously wiped from my memory. Granted they
were just digital representations of various people and places with no
perceived value, I embraced the power I felt upon determining their worthiness-
like a Roman Emperor deciding the fate of a beaten gladiator. The first picture
I stumbled on didn’t even deserve consideration as it was a ridiculous selfie
Cass had taken the night prior. Actually, that picture had instigated her
decision to leave as quickly as she did. Knowing fully well that I detested the
narcissistic epidemic that consists of selfies, Cass followed through with her
ill-advised action by taking my phone- without my consent I might add- to drive
me into a frenzy of judgment. To make matters worse, she even had the gall to
pose herself with very unflattering duck lips, as if she was a fifteen year old
girl starved for attention.
Once I saw the abomination, I justifiably lost my temper, reacting with a
heightened level of passive aggression that I didn’t even know I could reach.
She tried to calm me down by saying that she was just trying to flirt and have
a little bit of fun, which exacerbated my already irritated demeanor. This
comment led me to say without so much as a thought: “I wouldn’t be so unethical
as to flirt with a child.” Apparently this was the proverbial straw that broke
the camel’s back- the camel’s back being her ability to withstand my snarky
comments on a nightly basis. Admittedly I could have revised my impromptu
retort before saying something that might be inferred as insensitive, given the
knowledge I had concerning her unsavory childhood, however I cannot change the
past and it would be an act in futility to dwell on a single innocent phrase
uttered in the heat of a post-selfie moment.
It was safe to say that I would never again need to see that picture or be
reminded of how an offhanded remark could result in the catacylsmic ending of
my first and only relationship. After deleting the duck lipped catastrophe, I
swiped through the rest of my pictures with little conviction, now feeling an
absence of power following the experience of a guilt-riddled momento. Stricken
with an unpleasant sense of remorse for my inconsiderate words, I wondered if
Cass had reason enough to leave when she did. Since empathy had usually been
outweighed by my overwhelming self-awareness, I typically did not have the
ability to venture outside of my own bubble in an attempt to understand the
hurt feelings of others. Even when I felt the wrath of parental guilt, the
majority of my shame came from feeling inferior, not from the pain I may have
caused someone else. As my eyes seemed to be burning at a feverishly high
temperature, I feared I might succumb to my empathetic discovery, solidifying
my guilt with tears. Realizing that my body had taken control and I was unable
to take the reins of a physiological reaction, I continued to lay in despair,
waiting for the shameful tears to run down my face. I waited upwards of thirty
seconds but the tears never came. I then realized my eyes did not burn as a
result of pooling tears, but due to the cannabis that had finally been
digested.
Feeling the familiar lethargic stupor course through my body like a
paralyzing elixir, my body might as well have been catatonic- feeling only the
cold numbness in my toes transition up through my warm, tingling thighs, then
travelling all the way to my scalding eye sockets. Although the intense
superficical sensations demanded my attention, my focus was pulled to my racing
heart, which was beating at a pace never before felt. Although marijuana
typically increased my pulse to dramatically rapid rhythm, I feared that I was
having an adverse cardiac reaction to the substance. Trying to plan an
emergency route to seek medical attention, I worried that my numb legs could
not carry me long enough to reach the distant hospital. Granted I had my cell
phone and could have effortlessly called an ambulance if cicrumstances called
for it, the pragmatic region of my brain had quickly become impaired,
preventing me from using rationale to diffuse a crisis. If my brain had been
fully functional at the time, I would have had the adequate mental faculties to
realize I had ingested quite a bit of tobacco with the marijuana, overloading
my nervous system with a foreign stimulant.
Now wishing I had the clarity to calmly talk myself through the
realistically non-life-threatening ailment, I was nonetheless at the mercy of
the mind altering drug and continued to fear its perceived ability to cause cardiac
arrest. Therefore, as both my body and mind fell into a captive state, ruled
with an iron fist by the unforgiving cannabinoid/nicotine cocktail, I closed my
eyes and tried to ride the wave of overpowering intoxication. As I tried to
ease my worrisome mind, I was perplexed as to how addicts could subject their
bodies to the polar intensities of opiates and sythetic stimulants.
Experiencing the light jog equivalent of drug use, I could not imagine running
a personally taxing, veritable marathon of drug abuse. While I tried to wrap my
mind around the imperceptible desire to experiment with stronger narcotics, my
body responded to the comparatively insignificant levels of intoxication by
surpassing the agitation, thereby allowing me to experience the euphoric
effects of the marijuana.
Finally feeling the positive effects of the drug, I was able to lie
blissfully on the floor with half of my body in the closet without regard for
how ridiculous I might have looked. Reducing my anxiety, my obssessive mind was
temporarily impeached from its dictatorial tyranny, being replaced by a much
more passive and democratic leader. Satisfied with my inebriated brain, I took advantage
of its minimal interference, acting like an aloof supervisor, and took the time
to appreciate my current circumstances. First, I rested my hands on my
protruding stomach and enjoyed the shape it formed underneath my baggy sweater.
It was a rarity in my day-to-day life to reach a level of satisfaction in
regards to my undesirable body type, but under the flattering light of
marijuana I was able to disregard both the social and internal influences that
usually forced me to look at myself with disgust.
Lost in a consciousness overgrown with intrusive thoughts, I was coerced into
taking a stroll through the intoxicated recesses of a fleeting mind. I laid on
the floor and wondered if I never got up, would anybody realize that I had lost
the will to live. Since Cass had recently left and my only living relative was
an estranged father- who might as well have died alongside my mother all those
years ago- I literally had no one to keep tabs on my mental health (other than
my editor, who would not invest himself on a personal level unless I was unable
to produce enough drivel to meet his weekly deadlines and would still probably
much rather fire me than engage in a heartfelt conversation). Realizing that
other than my father, the universe and the people who inhabitate it, would not
so much as release a sigh of discontent if I were to give up all together. It
was at that point my stoned mind flooded with paranoia as I was instantly
instilled with faith regarding coincidence- not as a concept, but as an
authentic phenomenon.
I wrongfully believed that my vision had been as greatly impaired as the
rest of my body, leading me to hallucinate both the vibration and flashing red
light from the cell phone in my hand. I was not stunned by the fact that I had
received a phone call- as I was regularly contacted by debt collectors and
solicitors- but the fact that the incoming phone number had belonged to none
other than my father. Before answering, I became overwhelmingly aware of my
incapacitated state and feared that I would be unable to fake a sober tone of
voice. Reaching deep down into my limited repertoire of vocal inflections, I
tried to remember what my voice sounded like before I ingested the tobacco
laced marijuana. From what I could vaguely recollect, I was burdened with quite
the monotonous voice, unable to portray appropriate emotions for any given
situation, which is why I often come across as apathetic or sarcastic. Although
I do in fact identify as a facetiously cold individual, I wish I wasn’t so
transparent upon opening my mouth. Startled by the lengthy amount of time I had
taken to ruminate about something as trivial as my voice when I had wasted what
seemed like the better part of a day instead of answering a call from my
father, who had thus far stayed true to his word by vowing never to speak to me
again once my mother’s casket hit the bedrock floor of her cemetary plot.
Unable to summon the theatrical energy to disguise my noticeably
intoxicated voice, I spontaneously swiped my phone to accept the call. Mixed
with varying emotions from resentment to excitment, I did not know how I would
react to my father’s voice. I had even forgotten what he sounded like, but
seemed to remember that he may have passed down my inability to express
enthusiasm. Bracing myself for the unnerving unexpected as my heart raced even
faster than before, causing an alarming amount of perspiration to moisten my
unnecessarily warm sweater, I had nothing to fear when the voice of a young
woman responded to my quivering voice.
Instead of hearing my father’s abrasively holier-than-thou voice, I heard a
soft spoken woman, who must have been no older than myself. She initiated the
conversation after the absence of a response was indicative of confusion on my
end. First validating my identity, she asked if I was in fact who she had been
trying to reach, to which I confirmed with a barely audible grunt on account of
the fact that incongruencies had worsened my intoxicated state, leaving me
speechless. Trying to instill some momentum in our slow moving conversation,
the voice continued by condollingly stating that she was calling on behalf of
my father’s estate and regretted to me inform me that he had passed away early
that morning.
Apparently, as I was grappling with my fragile coffee press, feeling as
though my world had ended prematurely, my father’s existence had come to an
unexpected halt when he was stricken with a fatal blood clot to his brain.
Unable to comprehend the gravity of what this stranger was attempting to
explain to me, I became distraught as I was also stricken with a distressing
symptom: reality. It seemed as though the news of my father’s death had somehow
made the effects of the marijuana to dissepate instantaneously, which made the
experience all too real. Tempted to reach into Cass’ pill bottle to steal one
of the nine remaining joints, I dreaded the time delay of the effects and
assumed that by the time the substance kicked in, I would have already had
enough time to dwell on the guilt of allowing my father to die alone.
Instead of ingesting more marijuana, I chose to approach the baffling news
logically. Rationalizing that he was in fact my father and I was merely his
dependent, it would have been in his best interest to keep close ties with his
only living relative if he found the idea of having a loved one at the time of
his unscheduled death to be a comforting one. I somehow found solace in
hypothesizing that he would have contacted me if he new that the end of his
life was imminent, for the simple reason to bury the hatchet, thereby allowing
me to continue with my own life guilt-free. As I wrapped up my delusional, yet
comforting thought, it occurred to me that my father would have never given me
any such thing- he would have rathered given me the life-long gift of remorse.
He had already given me a similar gift by eponymously naming me, which haunts
me intermittently as I sometimes feel more relatable to his insanity every time
I introduce myself just as he would. As the woman shared the debatably tragic
news, I slipped in and out of focus, sharing my attention with the many other
thoughts and memories that entered into my irrationally grieving mind. Amongst
the white noise seeping through the receiver of my cell phone, I caught only
the time and place of my father’s funeral, which would be held the following
day at the local cemetary where our family plot was located.
Unable to be cordial enough to the woman whose job was very similar to my
own, yet more sincere and straight forward, I simply ended the conversation
without even a clue as to whether I would be attending the funeral or not.
Since I did not have any plans with Cass the following day, my schedule had
unfortunately been left wide open without the slightest excuse to refuse the
invitation. At least attending a funeral would be a free outing, unless I was
invited to the ceremony for the sheer reason that I was expected to cover the
costly funeral expenses. Knowing my father, he would have had little regard for
my tightly balanced budget by writing in his will that he could not be buried
without a renowed priest, talented tabernacle choir, or unnecessarily lavish
crucifix to be fastened around his cold neck as an extravagent statement of
faith to his long since worshipped saviour.
Coping with the contradictory feelings of losing a loved one and a resented
one, it occurred to me that the two balanced each other out. Favoring balance
in life- never satisfied with particularly exciting days as well as morose
ones- I was quite content with the progression of events. If news of my
father's death did not reach me by day's end, I would have thought that my life
would be impeded by Cass' departure, but with this tidbit of information, I
assume I will be able to tackle another dreaded week ahead of me without my
coffee to help me through. Not at all a bad or unproductive way to spend a
Sunday alone.
