the reunion for you, compliments of the state, no RSVP required.
I go back to flipping through the stack of paper on my clipboard in search of better lines. I’m feeling a little competitive, I’ll admit. I tear out a few phrases here and there, but nothing poetic really jumps out at me. Why do these forms have to be so fucking long? It’s not like anyone actually reads them. Blah blah blah, I hereby acknowledge. Mumble, mumble, mumble, I agree not to hold responsible. Hardly lyrical or quoteworthy.
Just tell me where to sign. Again and again and again.
I check my phone. I empty my mind. I wait.
Sometimes there are good days here. Easy, bloodless, paperwork days. No stitches, no probes, no pricks. Days that seem bizarrely normal, like the brown paper bag you’re clutching in your hand might actually contain a sandwich and an apple instead of a leaking, stinking stool sample.
Just another day at the office!
Sometimes there are bad days. Scalpel and retractor days. Large-bore-needle days. Hazy, blurry, time-gone-lost days.
But you know what? Fuck it.
It’s a waste of time, stressing about irreversible this and incurable that, thirty-one flavors of gut-scrambling side effects. That’s for people whose unpuckered, scarless skin has places to go, for people with reasonable expectations of beach vacations and pool parties in the not-too-distant future, people who have a reason for not wanting to look like a walking autopsy in their swimsuits. It’s for people who daydream about strapless wedding dresses, for people who can worry enough about the days ahead to bother with things like flossing and exfoliating.
It’s for people who have a very different future than mine.
I know—maudlin much? It’s just that Dylan isn’t answering my texts, and his silence is making everything else harder to deal with.
How’d your teacher like my, oops, I mean, YOUR essay?
Then:
Where r u? Everything ok?
That sounds normal, right? I’m aware that I sometimes fail to consider how my words and actions might seem to someone on the outside. Because of this, I don’t mind that Dylan has never introduced me to his family. I get it. I really do.
I’m just on edge right now because of the money. Everything feels more urgent, even something as stupid as an unanswered text.
I look at my watch and instruct myself not to send any more messages for at least three hours. I remind myself not to push him. I know he loves me, and that’s enough.
He probably lost his cell phone again. Poor guy is always forgetting where he left it. It’s the chemo. That shit seriously messes with your brain cells—I’d probably forget my own name if I’d been through half of what Dylan has.
Focus on the money, I tell myself, and the rest will work itself out. Concentrate on the achievable goal. I just need to dig a little deeper, work a little faster. Tighten the old belt, as they say.
I have plenty of experience eschewing material possessions. Lifestyle-induced asceticism, you could say. As far back as I can remember, things of any resale value used to come and go while I slept, as if carted off in the night by marauding herds of Craigslist goblins:
My first bike—secondhand, probably stolen, then stolen in turn from me. Karma’s a bitch, learns six-year-old Audie.
The widescreen TV from the living room—an overambitious Christmas gift gone by New Year’s. Santa’s a flake, learns eight-year-old Audie.
Dad’s tool set—bail money trumps home improvement, learns nine-year-old Audie.
A watch, a stack of DVDs, my winter coat, Granddad’s coin collection—when the dealer comes a-knockin’, your possessions start a-walkin’, learns Audie on too many occasions to count.
You learn not to care. You learn not to get attached. Okay, so you also learn to hide and sneak and steal—I’m not pretending to be Gandhi with tits here—but my point is that when you’re used to having things taken from you, you learn to get over it and get on with
I go back to flipping through the stack of paper on my clipboard in search of better lines. I’m feeling a little competitive, I’ll admit. I tear out a few phrases here and there, but nothing poetic really jumps out at me. Why do these forms have to be so fucking long? It’s not like anyone actually reads them. Blah blah blah, I hereby acknowledge. Mumble, mumble, mumble, I agree not to hold responsible. Hardly lyrical or quoteworthy.
Just tell me where to sign. Again and again and again.
I check my phone. I empty my mind. I wait.
Sometimes there are good days here. Easy, bloodless, paperwork days. No stitches, no probes, no pricks. Days that seem bizarrely normal, like the brown paper bag you’re clutching in your hand might actually contain a sandwich and an apple instead of a leaking, stinking stool sample.
Just another day at the office!
Sometimes there are bad days. Scalpel and retractor days. Large-bore-needle days. Hazy, blurry, time-gone-lost days.
But you know what? Fuck it.
It’s a waste of time, stressing about irreversible this and incurable that, thirty-one flavors of gut-scrambling side effects. That’s for people whose unpuckered, scarless skin has places to go, for people with reasonable expectations of beach vacations and pool parties in the not-too-distant future, people who have a reason for not wanting to look like a walking autopsy in their swimsuits. It’s for people who daydream about strapless wedding dresses, for people who can worry enough about the days ahead to bother with things like flossing and exfoliating.
It’s for people who have a very different future than mine.
I know—maudlin much? It’s just that Dylan isn’t answering my texts, and his silence is making everything else harder to deal with.
How’d your teacher like my, oops, I mean, YOUR essay?
Then:
Where r u? Everything ok?
That sounds normal, right? I’m aware that I sometimes fail to consider how my words and actions might seem to someone on the outside. Because of this, I don’t mind that Dylan has never introduced me to his family. I get it. I really do.
I’m just on edge right now because of the money. Everything feels more urgent, even something as stupid as an unanswered text.
I look at my watch and instruct myself not to send any more messages for at least three hours. I remind myself not to push him. I know he loves me, and that’s enough.
He probably lost his cell phone again. Poor guy is always forgetting where he left it. It’s the chemo. That shit seriously messes with your brain cells—I’d probably forget my own name if I’d been through half of what Dylan has.
Focus on the money, I tell myself, and the rest will work itself out. Concentrate on the achievable goal. I just need to dig a little deeper, work a little faster. Tighten the old belt, as they say.
I have plenty of experience eschewing material possessions. Lifestyle-induced asceticism, you could say. As far back as I can remember, things of any resale value used to come and go while I slept, as if carted off in the night by marauding herds of Craigslist goblins:
My first bike—secondhand, probably stolen, then stolen in turn from me. Karma’s a bitch, learns six-year-old Audie.
The widescreen TV from the living room—an overambitious Christmas gift gone by New Year’s. Santa’s a flake, learns eight-year-old Audie.
Dad’s tool set—bail money trumps home improvement, learns nine-year-old Audie.
A watch, a stack of DVDs, my winter coat, Granddad’s coin collection—when the dealer comes a-knockin’, your possessions start a-walkin’, learns Audie on too many occasions to count.
You learn not to care. You learn not to get attached. Okay, so you also learn to hide and sneak and steal—I’m not pretending to be Gandhi with tits here—but my point is that when you’re used to having things taken from you, you learn to get over it and get on with
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