This is a simple column by a complex
We go along until a 9/11 steps forward.
‘bout two years ago, literally.
Witness the solemn, profound, coagulated turn on message boards throughout the ‘Net during a tragedy. A majority comes together in the name of terror, compassion and desperate need for resolution, comfort, joy enough again so that we can continue going along, minding our business, bashing in the name of soaps (or, insert your poison here), ricocheting between sadness and euphoria, and—if you’re me—a disoriented lot of malaise with a heaping sense of abandonment.
Where’d everybody go?
Trek helps decorate the second nursery, in anticipation of her son and his wife’s first child, a daughter, and babysits her daughter’s and her husband’s, another daughter. Robb climbs rocks with his partner Shane every spare chance he gets, when he’s not out clubbing for one-night stands, fulfilling fatherly duties while his wife plans their impending divorce and stays overnight at her new boyfriend David’s, c/o match.com, and giving in to a few requisite dates with his new girlfriend as of January, c/o the same match.com online service. Jon and Nancy visit Disney World, church, work, children. Jon saves lives finding x-rays for preoccupied surgeons and combs music stores for vintage strats.
Honeycat faces cancer again.
I stopped staring down my garden run amuck long enough to think about this. First my mom’s best friend, then my mom, then a fellow GH poster on various boards who’s been nothing but kind and supportive to me (serving as the lone voice of defense during the Coggie versus Amber Tamblyn board war), well, after them comes me. In two years, I’ll start scheduling my mammograms and researching the data. I should now, but giving in to the coward in me, I figure, cross that bridge when I’m at death’s door. Thinking about it too much might happen to me, besides.
Besides, there’s the weighty matter of whether Carly will ever escape her Panic Room, how the writers will finally redeem Ric enough in Elizabeth’s, Sonny’s, Jason’s, and our eyes, and whether Genie Francis is really naive enough to cave in to the charms of co-star Tony Geary to make her triumphant return in September. Y’know, fiction over reality bites.
Truth unfold, I’m a coward at heart, my flat huge head sufficiently lodged up my ass, don’t all roses smell like shit?...
Look, Nobody Gets Out Of Here, Alive and all notwithstanding, the sequence of my primal medieval thoughts run from redemption, douses the phoenix with a cold shower, and turns the leaf back over to cover a cockroach stain, because, I just want to sit here with this pretty view of the colorful city lights, sipping my Coca-cola on crushed ice the way my mommy let me in nightclubs I wasn’t supposed to be at. With a cherry on top.
There’s the static, in shades of olive green velvet, mahogany paneling, crushed orange marmalade on fluffy pancakes, the Supremes, pastel lipsticks, mommy’s bouffant. She’d prefer us stuck in the 70s, as well, before her body went to rot and now her legs, well, she can’t just stand up without a lot of heavy breathing and wincing. I tell her, offhand, it must be the surgical effects of removing tissue from the body and in time, in a long time if she’s lucky...
But I don’t know. And right now, I don’t care.
I can’t, don’t you see?
Then, I’d have to face the real possibility of losing someone I love, a reminder that I’m next, when the homework assignment isn’t due until, a future date unknown.
And I haven’t even converted fully to Christianity yet, or rode the seven seas in a Princess Cruise Line, or made love on a rooftop before a hurricane kills us all.
I probably won’t.
GH is on anyway.
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