I’m listening to a radio show about censored books. The olden days are gone, mostly, here anyways, so celebrate!
I, however, would like to be able to censor myself. Like last night with Edam. They bother me but Why oh why cannot I let the cigarettes go? The smoke it does get in my eyes yet when it clears there is sadness in hers. Her eyes that will no longer look at me. That is the bite. That’s when I realize: life does go on but it has no obligation to take you along with it.
And so Edam floats on, giving her sparkle to others. I am left here on the wet and slippery bank of my excuses to watch.
The Last Fight You’ll Ever Have With Her Never Declares Itself Til After
We, us Wrong Doers, us Nitpickers and Fight Pickers, we think we have an unlimited cache of fights. And so we pick them haphazardly, on whims. We choose them. Isn’t this why it is said one can “pick a fight”? We choose them from the dizzying array of options, a whole lifetime of Irritating Things.
“She’ll stay,” we are not even aware of believing but of course we do. Believe it. If we doubted it, questioned her commitment to this less than perfect union even but especially in the hot second of our angriest adrenaline, we would never fight with her.
Instead we would charm, and woo, and deliver cookies we made ourselves to her workplace. We would let things go we would be bigger men we would laugh at our differences.
The last fight you had with her. What was it about?