Beware the Ides of March...Submitted by DaBeast at 2010-03-16 02:00:09 EDT
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Hi. I was born on the 15th of March. I knew who Caesar was before I could properly masticate lettuce in his name. I knew the "Beware the Ides..." schtick and to steer clear of anybody named Brutus not only from my Mammaw, but also from the wisdom that was Popeye, even though I wouldn't trust a squinty, deformed sailor that had a vegetable fetish with my lunch money let alone my structure of beliefs. I also learned quickly that fast thinking parents can usually avoid naming their sons Brutus. Brutus is a chameleon. Sometimes, he's called Bill or Rick or Fucking Retard. You never know. Keep your eyes open and never leave any opening at your rear. Needless to say, this meant the death of any aspirations I might once have held for recreational team sports. Locker rooms terrified me. Don't get me started on Frat houses. I also fear the bandersnatch between the legs of any stick women named after the fruit from the peace tree but that's a whole other kettle of ick so we'll leave that for the moment.
March has always been a bad month for me. I'm snarlier and meaner and quicker to cut but I'm also sharper at turnabout and playing nicey-nicey to keep people on their toes. Everybody's an adversary during this most volatile month. I mentally tally agendas, both suspected and proven, of those around me and wonder about why they do the things that they do and what's in it for them. I become a rascally paranoid freak, hell-bent on making myself completely miserable while mindfucking everything in the immediate vacinity. Why do I do this? Hells, dunno. Bad childhood? Check. Traumatic war stories about things unimaginable and awful with the scars to back it up? Check. A cadre of enemies the likes of which would set the world agog? Check. Do I blame any of that shit? No because I'm not stupid, either. I've been through the psychotic ramblings spewed regularly upon college campuses across the nation, seen the learned professors spewing their particular tenets of faith (there are still some Freudians lurking out there, watch out) into the willing ear of the nearest student. It's bullshit. That was my past. It shaped me but it does not continue to do so. I recall it like a vivid nightmare, all garish colors and loud noises and too bright emotions but it has been hashed and analyzed and stored. Damn it to fuck. That trauma once lent quite the flavour to my fiction but I chewed it up into tasteless paste a decade or more ago. I escaped that hell and I've made sure the life I've strove for was one as unlike that catastrophe as I could make it but now my fiction's gone to shit.
Fuck, I can't win.
I need my damned demons. There's a form of insanity, alright, but I admit it. What use, the lie? I'm too happy, damnit. How's that for a complaint? Yes. I can feel the mental head slapping coming for me out of the bounds of the internet. Thank you, all. Still, though, it is heartening to learn that misery can be cast aside like a garment outgrown, that no matter how bad the devastation, there is sometimes something salvageable.
The kids are asleep. I've gained another one recently. A soon to be 17-year-old hellraiser. She's cute and terrifically loud and opinionated. I stole her from my sister. I hope to mold her into a proper bitch, just like the other females that I've produced. Why females? They're so damned complicated. They have more moods in an hour than I do in a month. They make me tired. Oy. My other is also asleep. I've been in twice to watch that face, see the eyes flicker beneath the lids, and wonder what dreams come this night on the Ides of March. I'm a moron and in love, but wait... those are the same thing.
I'm happy, damnit. I have something important, something I always wanted, something I never ever believed that I would find. Something I still honestly believe that I do not deserve. Something I fear will be taken from me someday, somehow... and then I'll be lost again. I fear a return to those demons, that darkness.
But there's this part of me that feels a thrill at the thought, a spurt of anxious joy. There is something starkly attractive about grappling with the demons in the darkness and there is also something that feels like... home. It's where I came from. It's what I first knew before I knew anything. It calls to me in wakeful dreams and laughs and let's me know that it's still where I left it and it waits patiently until I pick it up, once more, or am thrust however unwillingly back into its environs.
Darkling dreaming demons draw me forward as once they propelled me from behind. I pray the dreaming false because I recall vividly the taste of misery and despair like iron on my tongue. I felt the hate slide down my throat once and I know it would be easy to imbibe anew. I've known fear that slicked down my backbone like ice in July and left me quivering in its wake. I remember, I remember. What good there might have been was always buried under an avalanche of sorrow, so I don't recall it at all. If it happened, I don't know it. The demons mangled my memories, tangled and shredded them like old draperies and now they swing in a forlorn wind.
I dread the future in ways that are not sane and that, too, has always been with me. I learned it young and I kept that knowledge with me. And I'm tired, tired, tired of that fear. Damnit. I wasn't this fearful when I was young, when I was reviled, when I was hunted. I hated more than I feared and I learned to think fast and act faster. He who hesitates is lost. My mammaw taught me some odd things.
But, in happiness, there is fear because once you find it, and you claim it, how can you ever want to let it slip away? You clutch it like it's a lifeline in a turbulent ocean, like a log in a flood, or a hand reaching out from the edge of the cliff. Your life literally depends upon it and you know it with an unshakable, dead certainty and you cling with a desperate grip.
Here is happiness, enjoy it while it lasts! You know what? Fuck you. I'll enjoy what I can of it while I worry incessantly about what will come of it. Will it help anything? Nope. Will it make anything better? Hell, no. My blood pressure will attest to that nicely. Can I stop doing it? No more than I can stop time itself. It taints my happiness but it's as much a part of me as my right hand. I would lop it off but damn, that hand's been fucking useful. I'd rather keep it.
So, what's to say on the morning after my 40th birthday?
Well... not much. I'm tired and I'd really rather be curled around the warmth of my other. No stupid picture, no fuck yous to anyone of importance, no witty repartee.
I've survived another year. Yayy! So, to my enemies: Fuck you and the herpes infected cunt bubble you rode in on (to whit: yo mamma). To my friends: what kind of crazy are you, that you could befriend the likes of me? Nutjobs, the lot of you. To the rest: always listen to the squinty, mutant sailor with the veggie fetish. He's on something, yes, but sometimes, he says something meaningful. Just sift carefully the crazy and you could find a nugget of gold. Who knows?
To you all:
May the road rise up to meet you, may you never love in vain;
May the winds of home greet warmly when you return again.
May your shadow never loom too large or the heavens grow too dark;
May you sail with the wind upon your back and a song inside your heart.
P.S. This is 6 years old. Damn. Time doesn't fly. It's got a fucking jetpack. :/