Vent

In the quiet moment before I sleep as the body goes limp giving up the day’s efforts both mental and physical; I finish an argument with you.

No, I am not special or unique. I have been deluding myself for the last 30 years believing that I saw more beauty in the world than most. Than my mother and sister, neighbors I grew up with, you. Then I realize you are just like them.

I write and you mock me “Dear diary”. I read and try to share an interesting story of the famous rope walker Phillip Petit, something that if you’d seen it on TV you would have thought it fascinating, but I try to tell you and you don’t look at me, and just walk away, “petite, must be a small guy”. And I’m six again racing home to share the day’s new knowledge with Mommy, just to be barked at “Don’t lecture me” as she turns her familiar pinched eye brows and turned down mouth back to the day time soaps, more real to her than the depressing life she lived.

For you it’s hiding upstairs playing video games. Our children talk about “Need for speed most wanted” more than the books I know they read. To see this, recognize this, but not know what to do about it, fills me with frustration. I know you can see it. So when you comment that your futile search for a phone number via internet for our God daughter is “just to placate” me and I respond in the only language that seems to reach you; “Fuck off”, do you understand then? I am not 17 anymore!! You can not speak to me as if I have no brains. I want our children to grow up with more in their heads than violence, cartoons, and video games. Either help me or get the hell out of my way!

Now I can sleep.