That’s when I am allowed to go back into my cabin. The ship shall sail straight for a second, Blackbeard’s heart upon the wheel.
Sometimes I’ve just got to escape. Her whiny voice, Musette’s, not the baby’s. The bottle feeding leads to hiccuping. There’s no way for me to be sure that I didn’t get water into the bottle. Babies aren’t supposed to drink water. They don’t have to.
Despair stands above my hunched over body. There are others that I’d rather have here besides you, I tell her, but they block me, one after another.
All of this bitching, and I forget to floss. Goals are for trolls. The angels are damned, assuming they’re not just sleeping.
Myself, I’m looking for that sweet free time, shutting Musette up in her dreams while I sneak out to my office, the backyard shed for a little bit of axe swinging. Machismo. I’m killing myself, keep on believing. I no longer have to rely on the nighttime to get work done; I no longer have to visit Twitter. I’m a lone Desperado. TVS, Loungr, and then all those who are actually living in the Zeitgeist, while I am here, a hobbled god, less powerful than all, fading into the mausoleum of my shrouded vision. The single life good and truly behind me. My only hope now, another life. A duck and dodge at death, evading both wife and child, sprinting like a chicken with its head cut off along the perfumed path of Penelope.
I am just depressed. I want to play videogames. Happiness is popping heads with my exploding bullets. Destiny. Now Destiny 2. It’s got me by the balls. The eyeballs. Bloodshot and milking them.
Too tired to have your dad come over, I say, blaming the baby. Sick of his stupid voice, the way he looks at me, the way he talks to her, the things he says, his shaky hands. He’s not innocent in all of this. I smell his crimes. He makes me sick. He’ll be here any second. Just got off work. He’s riding his bike straight here.
I just love that girl, he says.
I’ve got poop on my fingers. The baby blew out. On the floor of the chiropractor’s office. The insurance said they cover children of all ages, and then they go and charge our card $60. We were at each other’s throats. Musette had come at me about the delay in my responses to her telling me to do things, and I’d finally decided to stand up for myself and tell her to stop getting on my case about everything. And then she snapped, telling me there, in the chiropractor’s office to shut the fuck up, calling me a baby, and telling me that she only needs one. One baby. One, baby. One more thing, baby. I’m leaving you too. I’m already gone. You’ve said too many sorries. One was enough. I have dominion over you. You’ve got a pretty face. You’ve got potential that you’ll never meet. I will drain it from you. I will hold you prisoner. I will leave you alone in the dark. You will serve me, and I will never apologize to you. Silence shall be my suitor. I have said enough. I am bloat baby, the dad. My words only seem to make things worse. Most people don’t care to ask me what I do. They are too full of themselves. I will be more like them through no longer caring about them. My acerbic nature, growing. I never thought I’d come to be so bitter, but I’ve got nothing to lose. This is where we come to find freedom. This is where we come to find ourselves.
I’ve got to remain strong. I can’t let despair overpower my mind. I must drop waste. I need a cleaner cut. I am a father now. That’s all that really matters. That’s what I’m supposed to take from this moment. Everybody else is out yearning for someone. I have a wife, a child, a dog, two parents, a sibling, a niece, etc. I’ve even got a nice job. My car still runs. I’ve got the best phone on the market. I’m at home, with the air conditioner keeping my temperature regulated. I don’t get much sleep, but that’s mostly because I can’t wait to hop back into my video game.
I’m breezing through the path of least resistance here. Just letting it all hang out. Somebody will be along to clean up the mess some day, and if they don’t ever come, oh well, what do I care? This felt good doing, it touched the life of at least one other individual, and I believe that it has helped me evolve as a person. It has been my weapon in times of rage and my shoulder to cry on when I am hurt. What more could a person ask for? to hob knob and have drinks with somebody that I don’t care about? To be in the photograph of dipshit A posing next to dipshit B? Count me out.
When they tell my story, let’s have it be my story and not some peripheral biopic of another great writer of this generation.