The date didn’t happen. My cold hit fever Saturday morning, and she couldn’t find a babysitter anyway.
Saturday morning, I received a text message from her. She uncovered something about her ex. He’s doing the things she always wanted to with someone else. It broke her heart. I responded to her that I didn’t do half the things with Jessica as I did with Jeanna. And I’d probably didn’t do half the things for Jeanna that I’ll do with the next unfortunate. For me, old relationships are a learning experience for what lies ahead. Maybe I’m wrong in this philosophy. If you love someone, you should be willing to travel to hell and back and still remain prepared for another go. Maybe Jeanna didn’t love me enough. Or maybe I didn’t love her enough. Or maybe neither of us really loved each other as much as we said or thought we did. Maybe we’re just fucking around until we die. I see the text message from Jeanna and I think, “Why do you care why I want extra money for?”
Life is a Valerie June song on the record player.
I’m a battalion of self-sabotage. The queen who sacrifices herself to save the pawn. The house dealt me a seventeen. Hit me. Nineteen. Hit me.
I spin the quarter on the bar. I’m the folded page in a worn book. I talk to her about dates that may never come to fruition. I’m moving on and I’m getting out there and I’m going to push through this rut because, you know, I deserve to be loved and to love and I deserve better and to be happy and a family to come home to without realizing how much of a failure I’ve become and… and… fuck.
Twenty-two.
Hit me, dealer. I feel my luck’s about to change.
Chapin City Blues 