Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Wedding

Darling,

Your constant and incessant nagging has finally paid dividends, I wrote my wedding vows last night!! I know how eager you have been to see them, so I attached them below for your review. Please let me know if you have any thoughts, questions, or concerns; otherwise, I will see you at the church tomorrow!! Big day!!

Your obedient man

****

I, painfully unprepared, take you, pushing me every inch of the way, to be my wife, my partner in this Godforsaken life and my last fuck. I will begrudgingly accept our union and try and sink a little more into my own self-despair each day. I will neither trust nor respect you; I will laugh at you, and cry because of you; cope with you through good times, and run during bad. With this, I give you my middle finger, what is left of my decaying heart, and not an ounce of love, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.

Do I know you?

My initial thoughts were of my family sitting at home, happily ignorant; of my decision to swing by the bar for "one more round"; and of my unwavering defense of the Second Amendment. But as the moments passed, I fell into my overly-observant ways. Unlike the stereotype, he was neither menacing nor mean. He bordered on polite and felt strangely familiar. He wore a cheap suit, Costco shirt and a classy red tie clad with small Scotty dogs. His black shoes were worn, but serviceable. He emanated exhaustion. Truth be told, as far as I could see, the only difference between him and I at that moment was that his hand held the gun, and my tongue served as its resting place.

Sunday Scribblings

This weeks word was Invitation

It was 2:47 p.m. on a Saturday when it arrived. It was between a J. Crew catalog and a jury summons.

* * * *

The envelope was light blue, bordered by multi-colored, hand drawn surfboards; my name and address was written in orange puff paint.

* * * *

He joked once about doing something such as this, but I never thought he would follow through with it.

* * * *

Two things were contained within.

* * * *

He was thirty-three; at various points throughout his life he had been a professional student, bartender/waiter, comic, international playboy, pubic health worker, client service representative, and attorney; no stone was left unturned.

* * * *

First, a shrinky dink in the shape of He-Man, with the following inscription on the back:

To: Big B
Date/time: Saturday, October 18, 2009, 1:30 p.m.
Place: Astoria Park
Attire: Active wear (a MUST!)
Bring: Hamm’s/Pabst (cases); Pop Rocks (many);
Twister; red rubber balls (five); rope

* * * *

He always was a planner—something I did not hold in high regard—and would settle for nothing less than perfection.

* * * *

Second, an RSVP card (again light blue, but adorned with sailboats):

Please Circle:

Yes*

* There is no other option. There is no return envelope (for obvious
reasons). You will be there. Do not FUCK this up.

* * * *

The sounds emanating from my body at that moment—a muddled mess of laughter, sobs, snorts, and shouts of confusion—were, as I imagined, exactly what he intended. After regaining my composure, I placed his invitation in my pocket and found myself, for the first time in my life, looking forward to a funeral.

Good, I guess....

The question was simple: “what word defines you?” As he sat, reflecting on his life, all he could summon was the word Good (definition: “serving the desired purpose or end; suitable”). He was a Good student; a Good husband, brother, son; a Good friend; and, as far as he could tell, a Good employee. But what he was not—painful as it was to digest—was Great (definition: “remarkable or outstanding in magnitude, degree, or extent”). In that moment, he felt his life squandered, for people are inherently Good (i.e., suitable), but only a select few are Great. It is those individuals that make the world better, the rest . . . they just make it a more palatable place to exist.

Sunday Scribblings

Fuck the “best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup” shit. I want mine to be dark as the ocean floor, thick as oatmeal, and bitter as rust. No sugar, sans milk and a cup the size of a mixing bowl. I expect nothing less than a slap to the head and a kick in the balls. It is the offensiveness of the experience that jolts me to life, not the copious amounts of caffeine. You may question my approach, but this early morning reminder of the painful and truly grotesque allows me to make it through each and every day, for no matter how bad the remainder may get, it will never be worse than its detestable start.*


*Today's word is Coffee (http://www.sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/). I would like to thank Quin Browne (http://www.quinbrowne.com/) for introducing me to this exercise.

Into the black

He watched as she bent invitingly over the bar in an obvious attempt to attract the attention of the overworked bartender. The hatred he sought—over her youth, sexual prowess and ever increasing control over him—could not be summoned. He was instead gripped by the fact that she was everything he ever longed for, but nothing he needed. As the justifications ran internally wild, he could not escape the reality that, at twenty years his junior, she may have been old enough to touch, but was altogether too young to be decent for a man of his age…profession…and marital status. For a blinking moment, he knew what he had to do; but before his conscious could catch hold—as it always threatened in moments of solitude—she was back, eagerly displaying the drink he didn’t want, but desperately needed. With out it, there would be no her. Without her, there would be no purpose.

“Bottoms up,” he whispered, as he knocked back any chance he had to escape the destruction of his future.