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One of my oldest friends is dying tonight. My mother’s best friend since seventh grade. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you her name. She wouldn’t want that. I’ll just call her Effie. It’s a nice original name. She deserves that.

Anyway, my mother just called me crying. Effie is not doing well. She was in the hospital for pneumonia. Things got bad. She’s on a ventilator, a feeding tube, and she is heavily sedated. She is just laying there swollen. Drowning in her own fluids. The prognosis is not good. Effie is dying.

Effie was always my champion. In her eyes, I could do no wrong.

You’re a handsome and brilliant man. Any woman would die to be with you.

But my anxiety and depression…

That’s not all you are, Tommy. That’s your struggle. That’s what makes you a great man. You keep struggling. You just won’t give up, ever.

She used to read the things I wrote and cry and hug me.

You are so beautiful, Tommy. The world really needs you.

She always wanted me to marry her daughter, Amy. Amy was…Amy. And it was all about Amy, don’t you see? Amy is beautiful and Amy is sexy and Amy dates the guys at my school.

Amy embarrassed me. She liked to taunt me. She used to wave her pussy in my face and ask me if I wanted it. She used to dare me to take it. She used to dare me to fuck it. I would blush and fall silent. Amy would laugh with glee. She loved to torture my shyness. We were only eleven years old.

Mom, we have to find Amy. She has a right to know that her mother is dying.

No, Tommy. Stop it. My mom was crying. Effie wanted nothing to do with Amy. My mom was sobbing. She’s been my best friend for fifty years.

I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry. “Words no good.” -Ezra Pound. Fuckin-A, man.

Mom told me that, if Amy found out, she would loot Effie’s home. My mom is dying. I can go rip her off! That’s Amy. What a fucking whore!

I never wanted to marry you, Amy. I wanted to hate fuck you, sure. I wanted to shut you up with my dick.

Your mother is dying, you cunt!! And no one knows where to find you!!! Get your shit together. Lay off the Crystal Meth for a few days. You are really going to regret this if you have a future.

Effie IMed me two days ago. I just want to tell you I love you. She immediately signed off. I think she knew she was dying.

Effie why didn’t you talk to me? Why didn’t you tell me. I want to understand.

This can’t be all life is. I refuse to believe it. This is fucking ridiculous! All she ever did was work and work and she ends up like this. I want that shit explained to me.

Do you hear me “God” or government or fascist corporate masters or whatever it is that made things this way? I want a fucking explanation. I demand it from your silly information whirlwind!

Google Search: Why is Effie dying? Why are we so fucking fragile? Why does death even exist?

I spit in your face for making me feel this. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to lose you yet. Effie, don’t die on me. Please. Love, Tommy — a handsome, brilliant man.

P.S. Rae, I love you man.

P.S.S. and Rae, I’m dying first.
Either that or I’ll be right behind you

P.S.S.S. Rae, don’t die man!!

Sorry. I was crying through this whole damn thing.

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Kübler-Ross

Grieving the need
for a home

that will never know
dying, I travel

from door
to the floor,

on my knees
imploring

and sighing; I
turn away crying.

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Category: Life as Tom Hardie  Tags: ,  2 Comments

I fantasize about attending some party or a gathering. I’m confident and comfortable in my body. I feel attractive and poised. I run into a woman, an old friend. I have been in love with her for years. She knows this. She has always rejected me.

But now she sees me in a differently. Now she notices. She is instantly aroused by my appearance. I’m exactly the man she has always ached for. She finally sees that I’m perfect. Finally, the void at my core will be filled.

It never works. She is never impressed by me. She rejects me, again. She can’t believe that I’m still trying, after all these years. She’s flattered, really, but thank you — no.

I’m disappointed. I feel like dying. The hole remains. It grows.

I set a new goal. There will be a future event. I will be better at that one. I will be the perfect weight. I will wear the perfect clothes. I will engage in perfect conversation. Then she will see me. Then she will know. I am perfect for her. Then she will know. I love her. She has to know. She has to know. She has to.

Even as I write this, I’m planning, plotting, strategizing self improvements. If I read this book, I’ll be better. If I finish this school or get that job, I will feel alive and whole. If I write my whole mind out, someone will love it. Someone will realize that I’m not worthless.

I pick myself blistered with tweaking, adjusting, starving. Of course, I know it’s bullshit, but I can never stop it. It’s a compulsion. It fucking blows.

I just want to be good enough, already. I just want to be better. I want  feel correct, finally correct, at last. I want to be real to someone—to as many as I can.

Please, someone tell me. Can you see me? Am I worthy? Am I valid? Do I deserve to be breathing? Answer me, please, I feel desperate. This is urgent. I’m getting old.

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