Opening old wounds. My memory fails me. I peel back the gooey thin layer of the amnesic love my depression scarred over. The selective memory doesn't fail me now, for it knows I went through the grieving process twice to receive the single sobriety chip. As I set up Tinder dates in speech class it foreshadows my mother's words: "I hope you're not doing this for self-acceptance." I want a man, not a boy, Mother. No male with emotional imprisonments. In a steakhouse, I can fall silent to be awoken again by a man's questions.
Go-karting, drive-ins, a ride in a Tesla. Fireworks on a starry night deeply granted in my hopeless romantic psyche. Your arms around me in the bottom bunk of your aunt's lake house, whispering a funny sentence about toasted waffles or some breakfast gibberish in your silly voice. Little did I know, the morning after I was sitting at a table for one eating egg and potato medley while you sat on the couch ignoring me. Your aunt asked me questions only a serious lover would receive.
The night before you left for college, I cried in your arms for my mother's wrath, yet it was my predetermined psychic abilities telling me it was the last time I would be in your safe embrace. "This might be cheesy, but you make me feel safe," I admitted to you while sitting on a basketball shivering in my backyard. That night you gave me a side-hug and I teased you for it ever since. "We will find a way," you told me on your bed with our hands interlocked. The untruthful lust in your eyes told me something else. They whispered Florida. The last night I saw you, I realized I never knew you. Your voice changed much softer. 4 months unfamiliar.
He took my hand and moved it in a meticulous jilting pattern. Looking puzzled, he did it again. "Do you know what I'm doing?" I shook my head. "The gears," he simply replied. Speeding through the switchback roads, his "Mom Car" repeated Tokyo Drift; my curfew was going to expire. He had to get me home. My real home. The one I tried to erase in my lovely distraction. A man's man they would say. To let me know they still exist.
I BEFORE E EXCEPT AFTER C.
Agreeing to or reinforcing this rule is weird.
I can’t even think of eight words that aren’t feisty enough to be disagreeing with the “rule”. This false science may have been created by a literary deity, but the “rule” has no weight to it, and this person may have been high on caffeine.
Once, I dated a person named Eileen; she put her faith into an organization seeing truth in “I before E,” but she was forced to forfeit her house and flee the country by means of being locked into a freight car. Also, the leader seized her eighteen-year-old daughter and beige sweater collection.
So, what’s the lesson being unveiled here? To put it simply, even if your neighbor thinks the “rule” is safeish... even if practicing the “rule” will let you reign over a whole kingdom and become fancier... EVEN IF you are reimbursed with a free kaleidoscope afterwards...
You can neither trust nor join the counterfeit, deficient society reciting “I before E except after C”.