Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
The Manny Tapes (Final Chapter)
The end of the school year when I was a little kid was a bittersweet time - of course anybody's happy to not hafta go to school, but summer meant three things: extreme heat, an endless series of chores, and not seeing my friends. Yes, I was lucky to have Brothatime!!, but while I look back now and see it as lucky, it didn't always feel that way at the time.
Bittersweet is also the way I feel about Thursday being my last day as a Manny. We've both graduated and it's time to move on and I'm happy to have had such an experience, but I'm also sad to not have that day-to-day routine with Short Bus. We had great times and field trips and big moments, but sometimes it's the daily nothingness I think about, just sitting there for hours doing nothing but everything at once. Things that are earth-shattering one moment, forgotten the next. All the "first times" of his that we shared together on any random Wednesday afternoon, the hundreds of hours we spent together in our own world.
Ah well. Senior Year.
Bittersweet is also the way I feel about Thursday being my last day as a Manny. We've both graduated and it's time to move on and I'm happy to have had such an experience, but I'm also sad to not have that day-to-day routine with Short Bus. We had great times and field trips and big moments, but sometimes it's the daily nothingness I think about, just sitting there for hours doing nothing but everything at once. Things that are earth-shattering one moment, forgotten the next. All the "first times" of his that we shared together on any random Wednesday afternoon, the hundreds of hours we spent together in our own world.
Ah well. Senior Year.
The Manny Tapes (Final Chapter)
from November 19, 2007:
I wish the boy could actually catch a ball when I throw it to him. We’ll be sitting on the floor and I’ll toss the ball to him, which he stares blankly at as it slowly rolls by him. Rolls over his hand, even. Slowly turns his head to follow the ball as it rolls past. Doesn’t hear me sigh “fucking Christ.” So now after the ball has rolled another 10 feet he excitedly springs into action, taking off to crawl and get it. But it’s not like he crawls to the ball, gets it and brings it back for round two. Cause by now the ball has rolled by the couch, the pile of pillows, somehow snuck through the folded up comforter on the floor, and of course has landed right in the pile of burning syringes that is lying on top of a rattlesnake that is hurt and not looking to be generous with his personal space. And the boy is hurtling towards it, so now I hafta drag my fat ass up off the floor, every bone and muscle snap-crackle-popping and beat him to the gotdam ball. Fucking christ. “Catch.” Grrrrrrr!!!
"Hahahaaha!! Xmas I hope you don't catch no shit disease while wiping my ass, you stupid fat fuck!!!"
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