you are guaranteed going to need to read this again sometime in the future:
You let someone else’s problems evolve and duplicate into your own,
so much so that you justified tasting Heaven because you felt like you were in ****,
and we both know that your original concept of Heaven is a mirage and a Mudesa of all sorts.
We both knew you offering kindness to this person would only bring you down.
We both knew “fifteen minutes” would turn into three hours,
where your car, your Fortress of Solitude, a machine you feel fully connected to as second nature,
would suddenly be far too small
and the air would be far too heavy.
And instantly, you would do anything to not feel trapped inside a place you consider yours.
I’ll give you this, though,
that even in your worst, over dramatic exaggeration, your dreaded expectation could not compete with the stark reality you faced when she walked into your car.
Twenty minutes late, of course;
no big deal after working a twelve hour overnight shift,
and don’t worry about how it’s Canada and it’s fifteen below right now.
Please, friend, come sit in my car
and feed a fire and create flickering flames,
and don’t forget to remind me every ten minutes:
how I don’t know pain,
how I don’t feel isolated,
how I’ve never let myself hope and be vulnerable, and I’ve absolutely never had my heart ripped out.
How I’ve never longed for a past.
How happy and picture perfect my life turned out to be.
It’s a wild concept,
and an unhealthy nature,
Some people just can’t share their view or reality, their life and the feelings that direct every decision in their life, big or small.
Some people actually believe their emotions and their issues can be a burden to someone else.
Some people convince themselves they don’t need to talk about it, that creative outlets, time and
quiet contemplations might just
do the trick to make them have a somewhat functional daily life.
Some people see other people and can put themselves on a back burner and listen. Listen to hear and understand, not listen to reply.
Some people know that their problems are truly their own.
I would never, for all the money in the world, let mine awaken someone else’s demon.
But I also know that I’m ****** up,
because we all are in our own way,
and if you’re not ****** up-
you are even MORE ****** up,
because you SHOULD be ****** up in this world.
I take you to Tim Hortons even though I was just there ten minutes ago, killing time waiting for you.
And God, how I already ******* hate drive-thru ordering for other people.
But of course, you had to be extremely specific and difficult-
and that’s coming from a very picky person.
Why yes, you mumbled your almost incoherent and unimaginable order and the woman,
who was nothing but polite,
oh yeah, please be rude and snappy when she repeats your nonsense.
I’m not even ordering anything, but I chime in because you can’t focus on another person for longer than three seconds,
but even more off putting,
you weren’t saying a single “please” or “thank you.”
That, that is unforgivable.
You’re stammering to yourself
nonsensical bubbles of half words and drool,
while dropping all your oversized **** in your undersized purse all over the floor of my car...
never mind the fact we’re at the window and it’s $6.34 and you hand me a five.
You become sheepish, and overcompensate your justifications for why you are taking up more than fifteen seconds,
before I grab a toonie from my console plate,
handing it to the woman and thanking her.
Telling her to “have a good day, eh.”
While you act like that was inconvenient for you,
and ignore the sudden fluctuations of anxiety radiating off me.
I’m embarassed for how my Max Rebo blue Mazda
came off in that encounter.
I can only *** you so many cigarettes,
and God, how the attempted “puppy eyes” and “innocent girl” voice when asking makes it so extremely aggrivating,
especially when you permit me to speak and you interrupt me to ask-
I really don’t have many “deal breakers” for people, but I can’t stand being interrupted, and you do it like breathing oxygen,
and whenever someone interrupts me constantly it reinforces that they weren’t listening to begin with.
My mind, my heart, my soul does not matter to you. I’m wonk-wonking in your ears.
By the fourth smoke, you aren’t even asking, but telling and reaching,
because you think I’m on a level of Scrooge McDuck apparently,
and that I can afford to smoke name brand cigarettes.
Common sense; no one can afford $16.00 a day (minimum) to slowly and painfully **** themselves.
I think it’s been three years of you never smoking your own cigarettes when you’re around me.
Three hours and you talk my ear numb,
and I know all your life stories for the seventy-seventh time,
but none of them connect
and there is absolutely no time line.
The Legend of Zelda has a more concievable, linear and believable timeline than your own.
And us LoZ fans all know how notorious and infamous that timeline is.
“Just __ and then I’ll let you go, k? I know you’ve been up at work all night” you say to me,
and it sounds like you’re keeping me as a prisoner,
and more so, it feels like it right now.
But regardless of all this anger, this irritation and aggreviation,
I must have Stockholm Syndrome,
because simultaneously while you dismiss my world and any input I may have,
I still care, I still want you to get better, I don’t want to hear how you took a statistic and turned it into a prognosis,
and how you’re destined to die soon.
Because you’re still you somewhere,
and I see her come out with a witty remark or intelligent banter with me...
and then she fades.
And each flash is quicker than the last.
After three hours you carelessly throw in,
“I don’t want this to be all about me, so how are you doing?”
And I lie, and give you the same answer most people get.
“I’m kinda on autopilot and just coasting to survive. I’m ok.”
I have the few that know the truth,
and that makes surviving worthwhile,
and it saddens me when you tell me that I’m one of the last ones standing.
That it’s gotten to such a point where people do have to slip away from you,
and honestly, I DO get it.
You shouldn’t resent them or blame them,
it’s draining and it chokes me,
and I almost never feel uncomfortable and can look everyone in eye,
yet our time together today is coming to a close and I’m sliding through my iPhone to get some
music on after I get out of here.
And then you let me slip,
you offered me a taste and then throw in how you could “use a little extra cash”
and by the end I felt I deserved it.
No, earned it.
No, needed it,
because Emily is already held together by adhesives
and ****’s fire is making the solids melt.
The few people I have will know
that I genuinely had a good day after detoxing from the scenario,
and embracing the mirage.
That I got a good woman who made me a fine plate of food,
and attempted a backrub; my instant, physical, release from my head.
But then I broke later in the night,
and locked myself out of my own car with all my belongings.
That’s never happened in seven years of owning this car.
It was unpredictable and it was a last straw
and I smashed my snow brush into tiny pieces against a street sign and walked back and forth,
fists clenched, biting lip,
and primal aggressive instinct to any challenge of my theatrics.
I spent time staring at the wall; a mild asthma attack, not blinking,
and felt myself that the world was out to get me.
I realized later in the night that you stole from me,
and that hurt because you should know you could ask.
It’s not that I don’t have a spine, but I want to live bending it to help people,
but I’m starting to hear the bones *****,
and I constantly have neck pain these days.
But when I realized a twenty was missing when I went to pay the locksmith,
and I know I already paid you more than cost plus “five for the trouble” which was no trouble,
as you had arranged this slip for yourself and I just happened to be in range to come along,
I felt a stabbing pain;
not in the back or heart like one would expect,
but a stabbing pain to my character and your own.
We are friends, you can ask anything of me and I promise,
disregarding Yoda’s famous words,
I will try. I can’t always do, and I won’t promise it to you,
but I will try.
Yet reflecting on the entire three hours,
and even the past two weeks,
the words “twenty dollars” have come up far more than they should.
And for the first time I felt hurt from betrayal, from someone not trusting in me to try and help,
instead of insult from someone thinking they could pull one over on me.
And buying my unintelligent, unobserant front to see true colours.
You should know me better than that, too.
Have no fear though,
as I ranted aloud I assured myself
that I had learned from this.
I had learned that I can’t be someone to someone who doesn’t exist,
and the difference between being used and being taken advantage of,
has only been so blantant once before in my life.
But I immediately said
“This won’t stop me from trying to help in the future, though.”
Everyone and you.
I won’t let this problem evolve and duplicate my own.
I will always try to help, but I’ve been ****** and I’ve always known it.
I won’t let this experience taint a future that I want to paint.
If anything, it just shows me the real you is even further under water,
and while I’m angry and hurt and need a slight break,
I’ll always be a strong swimmer with a heavy lifting arm,
and I’ll still try to pull you up for those gasps of air;
however brief they are
and regardless of the strain it puts on me as I keep treading the water
and fighting the tide.
Overall; I can’t escape this,
and I won’t be like the others and call you toxic and abandon you.
See: “Partner in Crime/Smarter in Time.”
I wasn’t Frankenstein, but I may have pulled a lever or retrieved a few bolts.
I, in conclusion, put myself in this situation in a rational yet extreme
line of thought.
And the music, the amazing songs I had lined up to hype me back up.
It didn’t caress my ears,
instead it passed through my head.
As where I shamelessly groove and dance driving always,
my drive home was spent sitting still,
lifeless eyes fixated on the asphalt ahead of me,
hand to head to keep it up.
I had emotionally and mentally just got the **** kicked out of me.
I prefer the physical equivalent exponentially.
I will always try to help,
but I must draw a line somewhere,
and turning music into just “music” is smack dab perfectly centered in the line.
If you actually made it this far-
This was for me, and you just got way too much information:
Future Emily will need this though.