strugglin'

I've wanted to write about things, lately, that, frankly, are (GODDAMNIT) inappropriate for the blog.

Like, for example, about the d-lister/celebutante's VH-1 show, which has been (I shit you not) taping in the office. I've been having to write about it separately, and not post it, because I don't want to get my ass in trouble. (or, God forbid, fired again.)

But there are some RICH snippets of conversation. Including the boyfriend, on camera, looking over to me at my desk nearby and shouting out:

"RJ, is it MALDEEEEEEVES OR MALDIIIIVES?"

Um, stop talking to me.

Then, you know, DeeP --- stupid therapy is all serious and shit. Plus, DeeP totally read my blog.

I called him out on it. I knew. I know things.

When I said, DID YOU READ MY BLOG?

He said, "What? Whatever do you mean?"

Then he 'fessed up.

Then we had to have an indepth conversation about what it MEANS that he read my blog and then what it MEANS that he didn't tell me about it and oh, yes, is he allowed to read my blog in the future?

One of those times when therapy is like stabbing yourself in the thigh with a fork.

So, he's not going to read it, and I must say I'm no longer that interested in writing about him, and then I have to self-analyze (stab, stab, stab) what does that mean?

Stupid therapy.

Then I read Luc's latest stuff, and I'm thinking, Geeze, you tormented, alcohol-soaked, brooding genius, you're making me look bad. Fucker.

But you should read it. It's bone-shaking stuff.

We walked in and found him in his section. Power Tools. He was leaning against a shelf holding four different radial saws. Looking at the floor. Tennis shoes swollen with sore ankles and flat feet. Fallen arches.

“Hey, dad.”

“Hey, buddy.”

He was exhausted. He looked at me with blue eyes. My blue eyes. I always thought his were green. Or hazel. I thought the tears would hit me…like a summertime Bronx fire hydrant. Like the shitty Santana music video. Rob Matchbox singing about the half naked girls who were dancing in the streams of my father’s tears. I could kill him for it. Rob, not my father. I kept my camera in my pocket.

Walking out, I looked at the floor. I looked at his coworkers and tried to convey, with my eyes, that if they ever made fun of my father then I would kill them. Actually kill them.