I came home from work today feeling the small death of my spirit. It’s about the same as I felt when I heard Gene Wilder died this morning. Today has been full of small deaths. And that’s what aging gives you. Little deaths sprinkled like confetti over your life. The older you get, the more substantial those deaths become. Your favorite actors age out. They die. Your family dies. Your friends die. Your mentors wither into solid examples. They die, too.

There’s just no earthly way of knowing.

You become resilient.

I am learning a bad day at work isn’t something to lose your mind over. There may just be, perhaps, no such thing as a job that doesn’t drive you bonkers. It is just another reality to grow hard to. To prevent that frustration and anger and sadness from seeping into your soul. I am happy today even though, even though. And the more of these little deaths I feel, the more I will be accustomed to this feeling. The sads that are simply meant to be sad.

So much time and so little to do. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it. Thank you.

When you don’t write, you’re practicing not writing. You get even better at not writing. You become an expert at not writing. The only writing you publish reads: I haven’t been writing much lately, here it goes, let’s try again. Like a live journal if your mediocrity.

March 3rd 2014

I haven’t been writing much lately, things are really busy.

June 2nd 2015

I’m really going to make it a priority to write here this month.

July 22nd 2016

Writing used to be really important to me but I don’t write much anymore, ghost town night? Lol, I’m the worst.

These are the signatures on backs of checks cashing in on their negligence. A little self depreciating humor won’t make you any more of a writer.

Today I wrote “wrote on POW” in my schedule and then I came and wrote in POW. I suppose I’m not any better than the rest of them, talking about not writing, practicing not writing, complaining about how hard writing is. But at least I’m writing.

At work I take scraps of paper, balloon order sheets, floral delivery invoices, and I write things on the backs. The way customers make me feel or the funny way someone dresses. I tuck them in my pocket and usually I throw them away without looking at them again.

But it doesn’t mean they didn’t happen.

You are only twenty seven once, if you make it there at all. That is a terrifying notion. There are just 365 days of twenty seven. Fifty two weeks. Almost nine thousand hours. I looked all that up, obviously, because I needed something tangible. It’s the tangible that makes it terrifying. When you wrap your mind around the facts of it all. Well, all you can do is accept the obvious. You’re dying. Every second every minute every hour of the day you’re tick-tick-ticking away. And you will only be twenty seven once.

Some people don’t understand this. Twenty seven is abstract. It feels as if twenty seven might last forever. Some people sit around just wondering when they’ll be twenty eight. It’s as if it’s some new game they haven’t played. Twenty eight ticks to twenty nine ticks to thirty ticks to forty and it spins like a rock down a hill. At some point you’ll reach an age, whatever that age is for you, maybe it’s twenty seven, where you realize that you’ll only be that age once.

After that age is gone, it never comes back again. There is no second chance. Your life doesn’t rethread itself, it doesn’t twist and bend and restart in the original position. What you did not do at twenty seven you will never do again at twenty seven. This is it. And it’s gone, tick tick tick. Every second moving you closer to twenty eight.

We’re sitting on a bench and we’re drinking beer and it’s so hot outside you can feel your pores opening up just a little bit to let out the sweat. It smells like gas and pavement and grease. We’re making jokes about the Hump! porn festival that rolls through down every year. What if we got together and, I dunno, we all polled our best ideas, and then we crammed those together, and we created the best Hump! ever. There’s a communal nod that waves around the table. We drink again. The moment is gone. It’s gone forever. But it’s a snapshot.

I am twenty seven. I am sitting in the sun. I am on the bench that is already more red in my memorial than it is in real life. That blue bench. Was it yellow? There are five of us but there were only really three. We’re laughing about a film festival and we’re getting drunk. My fingers are sticky. I’m smiling and I can feel the skin separate around the dimple in my face. I press my glasses back up on my nose.

I will never be twenty seven again.

You Are A Sieve For Bullshit

You are a sieve for bullshit.

The older you get, the less bullshit gets through.

Your metal fibers wind, tight, wrapping, pulling, saying no,

fuck you

I’ve already let you come

and fuck up

my flavor.

We’re sitting at the bar that needs no name and we’re talking about the men we’ve dated before. At one point we think, you were there to make me happy. In retrospect we think, you were there to teach me.

What not to accept

what to say no to and

when to say yes.

When you are fifteen, twenty, twenty five, you deal with kid bullshit

He won’t call me, he doesn’t listen to me, we have nothing in common, he doesn’t value my opinions, I don’t matter.

You realize as the years drip through that these are things you will not stand for.

But then you begin to stand for yourself.

As all the men pass through you, you realize that they were just switches turning on, turning off,

genetics,

preferences wound deep inside.

Without them.

you’re better.

And the bullshit you can deal with thickens up.

You don’t have time for men who can’t communicate.

You don’t have time for women who won’t express themselves.

You don’t have time for people who don’t appreciate you.

Now they look you in the eyes every night, and they say

I like the bones your body was built on.

And you wrap them tight and keep them safe because

they’ve seen it too.

You scream what you know about yourself

fibers unwinding, spiraling out in front of you,

the piercing pronouncement as your

tangled mess of cords displays itself

This is what I need and this is what I want and

this is who I am.

You Are A Sieve For Bullshit