Short Musings and Male Tell Alls: For Better and Worse

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An Alliterative Short Story Spin on Factual Events: Part One

I am sitting.


I am sitting in a car.


I am sitting in a car in a parking lot.


I am staring blankly out the windshield of a two door green jeep exactly one roadway, two handicapped parking spaces and three general spaces away from the local Petco entrance.


I’ve been staring for an indeterminable amount of time. I can hear, but am unable to attend to, the exhaust mumbling some sort of complaint about its displeasure at idling. The muffler forces out a throaty, “I have a purpose,” that drowns in an eddying pool on the pavement. There is white noise sputtering from the two decades old speakers but white knuckles are inextricably wrapped about the steering wheel. I think that perhaps a little music could loosen the grip, maybe even get me into a little thumb tapping, but how to get music going without the use of my hands. Telekinesis could work. But I can’t do telekenisis. I guess telekinesis would require a significant amount of concentration. At least I imagine it would if I could and well, presently I am busy wasting that concentration on water droplets anyway.

I focus on one clinging desperately to the boundary between window and weather strip. I recall something in high school physics about potential energy and wonder if there would be a way to quantify what is in store for this guy. Recollections of the water cycle give me insight into the long term but I ponder what will become of him along the way. Will there be joy? Fear? Love? Loss? Luckily, before I am able to drown in hydrocognitive processes the droplet swells enough to overcome viscosity and takes a plinko-like plunge toward the wiper, gathering others into a kinetic decline as he goes. I exhaled dramatically, though I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath.

I loosened one hand and called my mom. I didn’t have words for a message. She returned the call a few minutes later.

“I’m scared.”

I struggle to emote to my mother. I’m not sure if she can understand even a slice of what I am feeling. I also don’t think that my two word response sufficiently encapsulates how I am doing. Perhaps if I was able to keep it to texting I could collate the right amalgam of emoticons and re-edit until I was satisfied, though I suppose the character limits would mirror my mothers’ inability to empathize so we continue..

“God put her in your life for a reason, and you into hers,” my eternally didactic mother offered up in consolation.

“God? Really? What the hell kind of god would bestow this upon anyone?” I wasn’t sure if this was just the agnostic dipping into atheism for dramatic effect or if I really was standing upon a theistic precipice.

I recall starting life under the auspices of two long arms. One arm was tattooed with a 9 pointed star while the other was emblazoned with a cross that will never fully heal. The arm reaching around my right grasped loosely and acknowledged openly the other arm, as long as the fingers upon the other’s hand were willing to trace the 9 inked prominences in supplication. The other arm encircled me for a time from the left, rhythmically pulsing; alternately suffocating and giving the impression that breathing would not be possible without its alternating magnanimity. Fortunately for me the fingers wanted by the right had no interest in tracing anything but that which was in the name of the fearful, the sorrowful and the horribly guilty. I was ten when the left arm began to atrophy from ignorance. At fifteen I started to question the caveated intent of the right. I was eighteen by the time I was strong enough to twist away from the illusion. Now, a decade later my mother was telling me that the illusion was the escape.

“God says you need her as much as she needs you,” she continued, ignoring my protestations.

“I know I do but please just admit it. There is no rhyme or reason to suffering. There is no greater purpose. Suffering is just that. Suffering,” I exclaimed while diving headfirst off the precipice.

I’d of course used this rhetoric before with argumentative intent. I have offered up tried and true starvation in the 3rd world, collateral damage from disasters, as well as victims of heinous crimes, but much like the cascading water droplet the pressures to leap into religious oblivion have been mounting for years. This most recent afront has now escalated my skepticism to palpable, bitter, grating, and…

My mother tries to change focus: the government shutdown. Realizing the likelihood that discourse along the former vein will ever lead to a change of heart I follow along. Republicans … yes mother. Democrats … I agree. Tea Party ignonomities … toungue-in-cheek amen. We hang up.


I am staring blankly out the windshield of a two door green jeep exactly one roadway, two handicapped parking spaces and three general spaces away from the local Petco entrance.

Like what he’s cooking up? Read more of this short story-ism as time goes on. Every time I begrudgingly write a health update (hopefully of the positive persuasion soon), he will give a glimpse in to his manmotions. It’a a beautiful thang…

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