Can I please just have an instruction manual?
Or do they have an off switch?
How about a “turn on the brain” switch?
Do they have a Douchemeter?
Just an instruction manual. Please. All I need.
I hate to talk about her, my ex girlfriend. I hate to talk about her as my ex girlfriend because I can see it bothers her every time it’s mentioned. But it’s the holidays, and with our families gathered together, she and I hear stories we probably shouldn’t. But it doesn’t make it any easier, to see her face when I speak. She hides it well on her features, on her skin, but it’s those stupidly abnormal brown eyes that give it away. She’s slightly, slightly, jealous.
It weird how much she reminds me of her, in an odd way. She is much more naive and innocent then my ex was, and somehow the thought of her being with someone the way I was with my ex makes me angry. But I know she hasn’t. Because she is so young and yet so mature and yet so innocent. It makes her there greatest contradiction and the sweetest temptation, and I can not stand the way she looks at me with her round brown eyes, because it make me feel so dirty and so old. But now, those round brown eyes are flooding with fire and it’s eating at me.
And it eats at me.
But she puts on a brave face, and the more and more they talk about her, the more and more I just want to yell shut up! to get them to quiet down. It was many, many years ago, when I was her age, and in high school and now that girl is my good friend, nothing more. But they keep talking about her, and even though they don’t mention her as my “ex girlfriend”, they have already done the damage. She excuses herself quietly from the table, and, minutes later I follow her into the kitchen.
She’s humming some tune that I don’t know as she reaches up high onto the medicine shelf and pulls down her noon medication. Three, four, five, six pill bottles rattle out onto the counter and she takes one from each pot, placing them next to the bottles. She looks up and sees me and smiles, a small warming smile before looking back to her pills and screwing the lids on the bottles.
She’s wearing the wig I met her in, a long brownish-reddish-blackish wig but she’s curled it. It looks so real, that the first time she slid it off in front of me, I nearly died. But since then she’s become comfortable with me knowing. I don’t know much about the brain cancer she has because there isn’t much on it. I’ve looked and looked and looked for things about it, but nothing comes up new. I know it pains her. I know it won’t go away. I know it can be fatal. But other than that, there is nothing. I want to ask her what all her medication is for, but I never do. I want to ask what the pain is like, but never can. I’m no good with feelings, expressing them, and she knows this.
“Can you get me some water?” she asks, holding out a glass for me. I blink at her before reaching out and grabbing it, turning to fill it. She gathers up the pills in her hands, and as I turn back with the glass, she places one in her mouth carefully. She takes them all, one at a time, and then finishes with the water. I smile at her.
“Better?” I ask and she nods, giving me a beaming smile. I faintly listen for the conversation in the other room, and I feel my shoulders drop at the knowledge that it is still my dating life they are discussing. She pulls at it slides off her head, her scar revealing itself to me and to the kitchen light. I can’t help but feel a bit sick, unable to understand why a girl so young and beautiful as her, at the age of nineteen, could have such a sickening cancer. She runs a hand over the smoothness of it before laughing to herself.
“These can get so itchy,” she says lightly, “I’m going to go upstairs, to change it.”
She waits for my answer, but I say nothing. I really want to tell her not to go, but I can’t. I want to say that I’m sorry for the topic at hand. I want to know why it’s uncomfortable for her. There are a thousand questions running through my mind right now but I don’t ask them. And I kick myself for it as she leaves to go upstairs. She’s uncomfortable and I understand why.
I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, for her to come back down. She doesn’t. But I knew she wouldn’t.
and I am oh so lucky. I was devastated at the loss of my previous barrel horse, Lenapah Linda, who I got as a three year old straight off the track. She came to me from Oklahoma and I loved and raised her to be the 1D horse she was. I was so distraught after her injury, I thought I was never going to ride again.
And I searched high and low for a new horse. It came to the point where I’d pay anything for a horse. There was no cap. And still, after riding $50,000 and $100,000 horses, I could not find the horse that clicked.
I trudged my feet home sadly from searching, and it was then when I’d found him. The owner of the local rodeo grounds had been having financial problems and had to sell her horses. We’d originally gone to see a different horse, and when I saw him, I fell in love.
At 16.1 hands, my big handsome man is perfect. I’m not saying I didn’t have my troubles, because God knows I did. But now, two years later, we’re meshing. We’re doing better. And I’m so happy. I love him so much. And I can’t imagine a world without him and his big handsome face.
So this post is dedicated to our 2 year anniversary. My handsome has set me a record already, and I love him more than anything else. So happy anniversary handsome, you deserve it.
I find a map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms and state lines
The distant from me to where you be
It’s only finger lengths I see
….Their faces were inches from each other as she finished up his tie, wrapping it around itself and tucking it in. He watched her with studious eyes, just her face, not her fingers. He had no intention of learning this on his own….
Please let me make this rodeo team. It’s what I’ve been born to do. I can’t imagine not doing it anymore. I’m good at this. You know, I know it. Please, let me do this