Skip to main content

8 years on...

8 years on and I still miss you.
8 years on and I still think about you.
8 years on and I still think of all the good times and bad.
8 years on and I still laugh at your jokes.
8 years on and I still tell people funny stories about us.
8 years on and I'm still mad as hell that you were taken from us.
8 years on and I still cry and get depressed.
8 years on and I still think of you on your birthday.
8 years on and I can still see your face.
8 years on and I can still hear your voice.
8 years on and I'm still trying to move on.
8 years on and you're still the annoying little bird on my ass.
8 years on and I still feel the terror.
8 years on and I still miss you.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Let's Talk Typing

When I was a kid, we had an already ancient Royal typewriter at home. Book reports, certain schoolwork, or in my case, just for making noise. Mom had a nice electric typewriter that she used for work. But that old Royal - that's probably where my love of writing began. - MM I was thinking about my old typewriter last night. Writing was serious back then. Forty pounds of steel, keys, and ribbon. No batteries. No updates. No distractions. Just you and the machine. And that machine fought back. Type too fast and the keys would jam together like two drunks fighting in a bar. Type too slowly or too lightly and it might just decide you didn’t really need that letter or that word. Sometimes it felt like the thing had opinions. Like it was quietly judging you. You learned quickly. You learned rhythm. You learned pressure. You learned patience. It was like a built-in editor made of steel and stubbornness. Made a mistake? Start over. Or, if you didn’t mind your work looking like hell, dab s...

Fags & Faggots

 It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas.  I had lucked into a handful of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance. I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile. I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate. I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself ad...

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...