2 Minutes. Go!

Papa's got a brand new bag. It's full of misery and self-reproach. It's stuffed with injustices he couldn't let go. The bag looks nice on the outside. On the inside, it is chaos. Not good chaos, either. Papa's bag is a shield, though ineffective. Papa's bag is like a rotten egg; it looks fine on the outside. You don't want any part of what hides beneath the protective shell.

Papa stopped hitting you when you reached his height. Papa spent too many hours at the firm, crunching numbers. Papa needs a few drinks when he gets home so he can settle down. So he can sleep. A few drinks for Papa is at least two bottles of wine. He doesn't drink it for the alcohol, just the sophistication. 

That's Papa's rationalization.

Papa cheated on Mama every chance he got. Like it was a sport. Mama knew, but she pretended she didn't, and she prayed there would be no babies to abort. This created dissonance. That made you stand on your back foot, always. There was always that low, electric hum.

Mama was a dancer. She doesn't dance anymore. She kills time any way she can. None of it helps her. She is treading water and trying to ignore the impending danger just beneath the surface. 

So, you feel things weird. Emotions don't run on tracks for you. They are constantly flying off the rails. You try to be made of something bulletproof, but you are just one large exposed nerve, throbbing. It doesn't make you special. There are papas and mammas like yours everywhere. Every state. Every country. Maybe on other planets.

And maybe, just maybe, you can break the cycle. And maybe that's enough. Or maybe that's just what you say because you're not old enough to buy wine. 

We don't tend to fall far from the trees that give us life. Family trees are always tricky, covered in thorns and blood. Maybe the best you can do is to try not to fall. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Quiet please. I need a moment. The air is thin. The light is too bright. There is just too much noise; I can't hear my thoughts. I don't even know if they're there. Just this rambling panic. Just this avuncular misery. I'm just going to keep breathing, keep my eyes open, just breathe until I can't anymore.

My heart is beating too fast. It sure seems like my heart is beating way too fast. Maybe I should go to the hospital - is this how people die? Trying to assure themselves they won't? How dumb would it be if I died trying to convince myself I was overreacting?

No one would know, though. They'd just find dead me. They wouldn't be able to see the panic or the questions. They wouldn't know the toll I paid. Hell, they might think I died peacefully. I can't have that. 

I guess I better not die. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Does it matter what I say? Not if you have paraffin in your ears. Not if you're talking too much to listen. Not if you're chewing and you can't concentrate. Maybe you can't walk and chew gum at the same time either. I am not here to judge you. I am here to shout into the wind, spittle-soaked, smiling.

What does it matter, anyway? Any of it. I am a blood stain washed out with vodka. You are a monument, and the shadow you cast provides shade for the small, woodland animals. I am railing against myself, but you are just in the back row of your own auditorium. 

Life is a sandbag. The rope slipping through drunk fingers. Your spine is about to be compacted.

Look motherfucker, I'm not saying I have the answers you need! I'm talking because people get nervous when I play with my feces. A man's got to do something. Pass me the soapbox and that orange traffic cone. I have a song to sing, and I'm gonna sing it all night long. It goes like this:

Fuck you, pay me.