The Pit

It always happens when I’m looking at fucking myspace. I quit smoking and drinking too much, so now I torture myself with myspace. I read the messages, and even if they’re not for me, it starts to rip at the cuticle. I see the pictures of them floating the river, the stupid ass home-made sarcastic Fourth of July T-shirts and blood appears. I don’t get the inside jokes, I’m not in the play on Saturday and now I’m sticking my hands in salty lemon juice. I want to be there and here or them here, but with the velveeta and bar-b-cue sauce and LoneStar Beer.

I know that I need to make friends here, but I really like the friends that I already have. I have lots of them, plenty really. I know that they can’t be here, but I feel like I should get some sort of voucher that I can present for the same level of friendship here. I’ve done the work. I’ve drunk the beer, listened to the crying, missed the fun party to eat chocolate and watch DVD’s. I’ve covered the back stories, religion, abortion, existentialism. I’ve moved boxes and painted bedrooms and put away the potato salad and talked to the bondsmen.

And now I’m here. I’ve got a house with good food and rad boyfriend and the van’s got the camping shit in it ready to go. We’re all getting tired of getting wasted and ready to get fat and maybe have kids and be boring and intimate. And they’re not here. And it’s not the right time to get new ones. All the good ones here are taken and it doesn’t feel like there’s enough time for them to know what it means, really means when I say, “Dad’s back in Parkside.”

They already have their Emilys and Jasons and Craigs and Natalies and Hilahs and I really don’t know if any of us have the energy to add my name to that list. We have our boyfriends, most of them have babies, they have their families and their favorite campgrounds and secret Kiwi closed-mouth language.

And I? I have it all. Absolutely everything. It’s just all in different places. And I’m in the pit.

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