These days the only waves I make are when I jump into the tub.
I am a cream puff at work, letting the backstabbing and nasty rumors roll off my shoulders.
I just don’t care.
Maybe it was the long winter, the failed diets, a broken rib, and flaming hemorrhoids.
I’m on cruise control right now.
It hurts when I laugh but I still do. I’m quick with a smile and ready for love.
I have been lying to myself for forty years.
My 1200 calorie low carb. diet never materialized.
I did manage to lose six pounds which caused my pants to instantly drop in the banana section of Weis market. I was wearing my golf underwear–they had eighteen holes. They were once bright white but that was years ago.
My idea that I was going to work my way up to jogging two miles was another lie. I get very dizzy just bending over and tying my shoes. I walked a mile one day and was so hungry afterward I ate lunch twice.
Stress of everyday living has me snacking all night on comfort foods: chocolate, donuts, cheese Danish, etc. I have noticed that I eat very little between the hour of 6am and 7am.
I may be on a light diet:
when it’s light out I start eating.
We are the men of Easton B,
the raiders of the night.
We are dirty sons of bitches.
We would rather fuck than fight.
We were singing our floor’s theme song.
Nobody showed up for our keg party and five of us are trying to drink a half keg.
They said that after my twenty-first red Solo cup full of beer I ran up and down the hallway wearing only my socks. I had lost touch with reality.
They said that I tore a sink off the bathroom wall.
I had no idea.
They said I put a motorcycle helmet on and knocked four holes in the walls and broke two windows. They threw me in my dorm room closet and blocked the door with my desk. The next day I woke up with a stiff neck.
I gave up drinking for three days after this.
We were the men of Easton B, the raiders of the night.
We were dirty sons of bitches, we would rather fuck than fight.
My heart was broken at an early age.
In the first grade I had a crush on my classmate, Patty Hiney. Her desk was in front of mine, and I could stare at her freckles and red hair for hours. Then she told me that she didn’t like me and could never kiss me. My heart was broken. I just wanted to be her friend and confidant.
Then in the fifth grade I was obsessed with my teacher, a nun, Sister Nicebum, whose black uniform allowed me to only see her face and hands. That was enough–I was smitten.
Sadly, the three times she smacked me for poor behavior smacked the love right out of me. I was a bad boy, and the only reason she passed me onto the sixth grade was so she wouldn’t have me for another year.
For a time I loved Patty and Sister Nicebum and that’s what’s important.
Oh my God, the school bully just pushed me and called me a pussy.
I’m in the seventh grade and he’s in the ninth grade. He has beaten up four of my classmates.
I have been in one fight with a fifth grade girl–it was a draw.
He wanted me to go in the bathroom with him. I must have had a death wish because I followed him in there. His brother and some other big redneck were in there too. They just started throwing punches, and I took a beating for about ten minutes.
Mr. Hershy, the English teacher, stepped into the bathroom. I threw one punch and split Rodney’s lip.
I walked out of the boys bathroom with little red marks on my face and a torn shirt. Rodney came out with blood dripping out of his mouth and more blood smeared on his face.
The rumor spread that I had beat up the bully.
What really happened has remained a secret until now.