I am going to start with a little information for all the concerned parties who have been wondering what is going on with my transfer to Buffalo. And there are quite a few, more than I would have guessed considering I dropped out of society for twelve years. It still amazes me that there are so many people who are rooting for me. I thank you all.
The agent in Erie County claims to be terrified of dogs. My sister has a ninety pounds Italian Mastiff. This dog was rescued by my sister, was abused and terrified. The dog has adjusted and is happy to just have a loving, safe home. She doesn't want to bite anyone. The agent met the dog, and knows this to be true. Still he sticks to his, "I just nervous around dogs" story.
My sister called Albany with the intent to rip someone a new asshole, but she was too upset. The man she spoke to in Albany offered to set up an alternative placement. He told my sister to locate an apartment in Niagara County (She lives on the border, so not a big deal.), and he will assign my case to a new agent and explain the situation. My sister, through tears and curses, got on Craigslist, and ahs two appointments today and one on Monday. So, there is still hope.
On with the show.
Today I am thinking about women. And there is a reason for that, other than the usual one.
Last night I received a friend request and a message. The message said, "Surprised to see you on Facebook. Good to see you. Been reading, like your writing." Something like that. It is not a direct quote. She wished me well.
The face I knew, the first name was correct, but the last name, due to out male centered, misogynistic society, was different. I wrote back, "Is this blank blank?" (I will not use her name, because I have not discussed this with her. For most of our talk she will be referred to as, Miss Seventh Grade. If she wants to out herself, that is up to her. I wouldn't. Who wants to be linked to a freak like me?)
She wrote back, "Yes, sir."
Fuck, was my first thought. (This is a beautiful woman we are talking about here.) My mind went into overdrive. What ifs, regrets, visions of two thirteen year olds holding hands and walking her dog, making out, healthy nostalgic thoughts. I smiled. "Jesus," I wrote. "Another mistake. Your husband is a lucky man. You are as beautiful as ever. Good to hear from you. I miss walking blank." (Name of dog also omitted.)
Then the transformer blew and the madness started. When I tired of posting my ultra witty, philosophical comments on Facebook, I lay down. But I wouldn't sleep. Miss Seventh Grade had moved into my head, and she wasn't going away quietly.
It all came back. This was my first instance of being an asshole to women. I'm sure there were times I was sweet, as sweet as a thirteen year old boy can be. I remember then end of our relationship. I remember times when some other person would say something about her and I would not defend her. I remember a poem she wrote that said something about my big, brown eyes. She was a sweetheart of a girl. I remember roller-skating. I remember fights. I remember awkward, teenage confusion.
We broke up. eighth grade she went out with someone else and so did I. I still thought about her. She would walk down my street sometimes and I would sit outside with a Bon Jovi cassette (She loved Bon Jovi. This was 1987.), ready to hit play when she passed. Hoping to start a conversation.
Then, 9th grade. The summer had been good to her. Like a drought starved flower, her beauty exploded. We had a class together. She wore her cheerleading outfit. A tall girl with legs all the way from her ass to the floor. Her hair was changed, blond streaks in it. She had boobs! She looked incredible. She was dating an older guy.
So, not only was Miss Seventh Grade my first experience of many of being an asshole to women, she was also my first experience of many of regretting the loss of a woman.
I have been raised by the women in my relationships. And for some unknown reason I have been lucky with the caliber of women who have chosen to grace me with their company. For better or worse, they have shaped me, molded me into the person I am today. I never listened, but I think all their hard work is beginning to pay off. Miss Seventh grade started a chain of cause and effect which stretches thirty years, thus far.
There was Cynthia, who taught me about love and the world, added a little culture to my white trash. Nikki, who holds the title of staying with me longer than any other woman, and is one of my best friends to this day. Bernadette, the Australian beauty. She makes my Key West memories even more golden than they already are. Danielle, the incredible mother of my only child. Jen and Julie who are close friends (Ooopps, not while I was dating Julie. Sorry. My bad.), and both took care of me and saved my life more than once. Caryn, who probably has no idea how much our short, dysfunctional relationship has impacted my life. And several more throughout the years. Some I shouldn't mention, some I won't. Not to slight anyone. They all left a little of themselves with me. I am a conglomeration of them all. And this started with Miss Seventh Grade.
I am nostalgic and pussing out. But you never know how much the people in your life are going to impact you. Events that seem so benign come back to make you lose sleep thirty years later. I am thinking about all you ladies today (You have Miss Seventh Grade to blame for that.), and thinking that I should do my best to practice kindness, because you never know. You never know when a friend request will come, and suddenly have you thirty years in the past, questioning your character. Up half the night.
So, Miss Seventh Grade, I thank you and curse you. This has been far too wimpy. I need to put on some Pantera and write some hardcore dope fiend shit. Might have to be a double posting today, so I can gain some of my street cred back.
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