7.03.2006

Unity. Camaraderie. Fraternity. (Sorority.)

Have been speaking about the idea of reminders lately.

Meaning? Oh. Right.

Last night at Café Royale I was explaining a series of recent mid-week drunken events that left me:
1. Looking like an idiot.
2. Feeling marginalized.
3. Marginalizing others, and
4. Saying things out rightly that most people would not.

The point? Please—PLEASE hear this one.

When I was sixteen and a freshman in college, I was, after a summer spent as a nomad-couch-and-bed-surfing-burrito-rolling-pot-head, living back at my [biological] mothers’ house. For the first time since I had known her, she had friends. Seriously—she was going out with them during the day instead of going to doctors appointments and sitting in front of the TV. Most of the time, she would completely ignore me, and so I was happy. Very happy.
One day she finally admitted to me that in fact she was not spending time with her new found friends, but rather my father that I had never met. She ordered me to meet him, so I did, and didn’t really like him all that much.
“Yeah, Clarence, here’s the thing,” this is me at sixteen talking with my father, “You just aren’t that cool. You really don’t have any redeeming qualities that would make me even want to get to know you let alone forgive you. I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m amazing. And talented. Oh, and also—I’m a genius. Did mom tell you that?”
“But I’m your dad.” I laughed at this.
“No. No you’re not. You’re my father.”
What a dick.
Point being, one day I called my mother from school, and a freakin’ man answers my phone. A little background--Men are not allowed to answer my mothers’ phone. She may answer it, my sister may answer it—even my niece and I may answer it—but by NO MEANS DOES ANY MAN EVER ANSWER MY MOTHERS’ PHONE. That includes my brother, Scott.
I don’t even need to explain to all y’all who it was, but the response I received from asking who in the holy hell was answering my goddamned phone did not go over so well.
“Young lady, don’t you ever speak to me like that. This is your father. Clarence. I hope you don’t speak to your mother that way.”
My last words ever to my father?
"FUCK YOU AND PUT MY MOM ON THE PHONE IMMEDIATELY.”

A week later my father replaced me at my house. He moved in, I was kicked out, I told my mother he didn’t love her, and just like I had predicted he overdosed on crack a few years later.

I promise, there’s a point. Bear with me.

So then I’m 21, living in Miami, braving my first South Florida summer, and one day my phone rings. It’s a Seattle city commissioner explaining to me that my father had died. Died. And the last thing I had ever said to him was “Fuck You.”

The point:
Please don’t ever miss an opportunity to tell someone how you feel. Propriety doesn’t mean dick when life is so fucking short. My father wasn’t quite sixty when he died—that means many of us may only have the chance to live the time we already have had one more time. Can you imagine how you’d act if half your life was already over? What would you do differently, even if you’re only 25? 29? 31? You could be, like some of my favorite people in this world, still only 23—and then? What could happen tomorrow that could prevent you from telling someone, rules and propriety aside, that you love them? That maybe you could have something awesome—even if it’s limited? That yeah, you do know how dumb this sounds…but I really like you. Do it now. Everyday. Before it’s too late. Fuck it.

My regrets? Not that I told my father “Fuck You”—Oh hell no. I’m just glad I got to say it before he died.

I haven’t spoken to my biological mother since I was nineteen.

That means I never got to say:
“I fucking told you so.”

Remind someone how much you care about them today.

--M
[p.s.--If you google "i am a jelly doughnut", which is the title of my blog, I'm the 10th response. However, if you google "Please show me how to live" or "Generals gathering thier masses", I'm number one. Try it. Props today to Mike Doughty and Ozzy Ozbourne.]

4 comments:

lauren said...

yo! i think you are fucking amazing, and i love you. i admire the way you tell it how it is, and whats on your mind. i have learned alot from you miranda and i feel extremely fortunate to be your friend!

Sam said...

Um, Miranda, what the fuck happened? I love you, and you know that, and now I am a bit freaked out. Are you dying? Did somebody die? Or was there just a bit of the I-L-Y mid-coitus? Are you saying I have to speak to Ian now? And, most importantly, am I still drunk from last night with Pete in town???????

~PhoenixRising said...

Um, save a tat spot, as I requested of Sammy? Perhaps with you a dictionary, Guerrela Illuminati (with correct spelling, of course!) - Perhaps we will wing Sammy into it and have a tattoo threesome?

Lord yes!

Many loves,
Davey

~PhoenixRising said...

PS) sangria, baby, sangria.
I must call!


"Life is meant to be sad and painful, that is it." - Born Into Brothels (aka young prostitute)