Forward

I've moved to extrabronte.wordpress.com and I'd love for you to drop by.

The Queen of Refuse

I found your mix in my car, tucked near the back of the CD Wallet of Shame that I should probably throw out.  Thing goes down as maybe the lamest way to say "I'm sorry" in history; a gift I sent which was rightly returned to me because, really, who makes amends to someone by UPSing them a black rubber CD case with a capacity of 64?  (This was around the time I thought I had Asperger's, but I've learned that is not a good excuse.)

But the mix, now.  That was from you, and I won't throw it out, though with you my screw-ups abounded.  The date on it is a year after the fallout, after words had been harsh and silences harsher.  Then forgiveness, but a fragile one; and then, these songs.  They are of their time, and of your taste.  I remember liking it enough, playing it through several times but then, moving on.  

Five years later, driving home in the throes of a recently mustard-gassed romance, I was feeling incredibly and senselessly victimized, and then this disc showed up and took me back to when I was the killer. I didn't kill you, of course; what an arrogant thing to suppose. But the "it" that we stumble upon with people, the thing both awaited and unexpected ... I snuffed "it" big time.   And I have no business demanding that "it" to be there for me that way again, like the white ribbon you get just for participation.  Not like we haven't all done it --- let someone down, broken something up ---but doing the deed changes you, especially if you do it all small and shifty, and for no other reason than you don't want to be loved for you, because you're hoping to find out you're someone else.  

Now I'm someone listening to a mix you might not even recognize.  And it may seem like I'm regretful, but that's not quite the feeling.  You are so beyond fine you don't know this is about you.  Nothing should be different.  I guess I'm ... grateful?  That I found the CD when I did, so I could get over myself and all this "it" supposedly dying on me.  "It" is as dead as Tom Sawyer watching his funeral.  It's stupid and alive, hiding, a little stunned at the needless grief. And it'll crash through the ceiling one day and piss me off worse than ever, but maybe come home with me, too.  

Oh.  And it won't be a 12-year-old boy, in case that imagery got too solid.

If so, that was an excessively long rebound

and I'ma do a hook shot with my eyebrow.

PRANX!

We run a tight ship here, Fetus.