One afternoon, she went to the store and unexpectedly bought almost 12 months of memories. They weren’t on sale and definitely can’t be returned.
I live my life with my head in the clouds, my soul enraptured in the dreamlike trance of my extravagant fantasies. The rest of my carcass remains trapped in this deep, dark pit where I wallow in the extravagant let-downs I myself have conceived.
Multiple Sclerosis is not a fun disease, but luckily it is a slow one.
No known cause and no known cure…
..but research is the technical term for hope.
I know you are in love with me because of my heart, mind and soul.
I know … hope … that my millions mean … nothing?
I’m limping because last night I stood on some shards of broken dreams.
They are scattered on my bedroom floor along with my self-respect, bottles of girlfriend tears and lost hopes crumpled and stained.
We have taught each other so much in the time we’ve spent together.
You’ve taught me about love and hope and justice and I’ve taught you about lentils and parachute pants and how to fold little paper dogs out of any spare scrap you find.
Find the inspiration and the hope and the joy and the application and combine them all together.
Hope to find somewhere to sell the result before you find the sloth and the greed and the bottle and the endless wasted days.
I looked at the headstone where my dog now lay.
And said “The pawprint you left on my heart, will never fade away.”
My hands and underarms grew clammy with fevered regret as I doubled over in the simple but cushy chair, head down and fingers interlocked as though in prayer. Then, the grey-haired, bifocaled man uttered the magic words that would grip my body and make it convulse wildly in a fit of rapture: “You are NOT the father!”