Monday, May 27, 2013

Winners and Losers sresoL dna srenniW

It's funny how easily I give up on myself; well, not funny I suppose, more annoying really. I'm sure it started in the womb as all good neuroses do. Maybe I was done cooking and had decided it was past time to poke my head out, but mom's cervix was in denial and refusing to budge a centimeter, so I just put my fetal hands in the air and sighed in submission and scratched another hash mark into the womb wall; cuz I knew if I'd made a big stink about it people would just get pissed at me and still refuse my request and then I'd be in trouble before I was even born for Nothin'!. Or maybe it was when the doc grabbed my tender head with a pliers on that day when mom's cervix finally said "hit the road punk", and I screamed at the doctor to stop squeezing, but he just smiled and said "it's a boy" like I hadn't already met my penis in the nine months I'd had nothing to do but play with myself, and so I just shrugged and let the monster compact my teeny brain with a steel torture device without putting up an argument, like I always do.

Or who knows, maybe it was later when Tim Davison wanted to fight over which comic book hero could kick all the others' asses, and the first thing he said was "no hitting in the eye", and I said "sure, ok" and then he hit me in the eye real hard and ran like a little girl, and I just stood there and cried, rubbing my blackening eye like I didn't know that was coming. And then moments later my guardian angel knew I was about to do something horrible so she starts right away, scolding me to keep my temper and be a nice boy and not sink to the level of my enemies, and I knew she was right and really wanted to please her by being all Jesus like and turning the other eye, but instead I picked up a brick and heaved it at the twerp nicking his shoulder, and he screams as if I'd really hurt him by hitting him in the eye or something. (Even the priest at confession thought that series of mental connections was a little convoluted, he had to fall back on the throwing the brick thing just to find a sin for me to do penance for, cuz everyone knows you can't send a kid home from confession without having him say a few "Hail Mary's" first.)

It could have been the time I had my hand down the shirt of Cathy Zak in the back seat of a car at a drive in movie, my sweaty fingertips just barely touching the top seam of her silky bra and every molecule of my being screaming for her to acknowledge that my digits' advancement would be not only appropriate, but recommended. And there, for about six hours we sat, my not wanting to risk rejection just to cop a feel and she probably wondering "what the hell is wrong with this dweeb, just grab the damn thing and let's get goin' here you Idiot!" So after that six hours, with her not so much as winking to sign that the base paths had been chalked and were ready for me to slide in, I just shrugged and withdrew my hand so that I wouldn't look like every other creep who just wanted to touch a 4'9" girl's 36D boobs; in fact it was made clear I respected her for her mind, or at least something other than her sex parts, cuz I thought when we actually did "it", "it" might be more enjoyable because she "liked" me and not just "let" me. (I learned much too late that as a teenager, "like me/let me" were pretty close to the same thing, and I never did touch Cathy's breast because she dumped me, I spose because she was disappointed I never did touch Cathy's breast. That sad fact notwithstanding, I'm sure I shouldn't have taken pleasure in the fact the when I saw her fifteen years later and she was wearing a t-shirt with no bra and her boobs looked more like floppy gorilla arms with their nippled parts dangling somewhere near her knees, just because she rejected me; but I'm kinda grudging that way)

Man, the more I think about it, the more I remember, the more it makes me sad I've had such a stressful life, the more it makes me angry cuz nearly all people are mean to me (Damn them!), the more I just can't help throwing up my arms and shrugging and sighing and shaking my head and just walking away...when really I just want to know I'm a cool guy like everyone else, and I know all I have to do is say I'm a cool guy enough that I'd eventually believe it, and my life would be so much better; yet I still give up, like I'm a computer game programmed to let the stupid kid with braces win every freaking time while he laughs at my pathetic written code cuz I'm such a loser when the reality is he's the loser or I wouldn't have to forget everything I know just to let him win.

Life is just too damn complicated sometimes, it wears me the hell out.

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