I have a forgetfulness problem. It happened just as I was leaving to walk to the coffeeshop in the neighborhood. Mother told me that she had a letter she wanted me to put in the mailbox, I told her I would take it outside, and I didn't, I flat out didn't. I had walked across the street before I realized I forgot it, but by then I had heard footsteps of what I assumed to be My Father walking outside, and when I turned around I see him take a letter to the mailbox.
Why do I do that? Why do I forget to do something I just said I would do three minutes before? I don't know, but maybe I can explain myself in this case. I was just rolling out when Mother told me that she was not going to be eating tonight because she's doing something. So it'll be me and My Fucking Father at home. Ugh. Moreover, we'll be having pizza this evening, which means I'll have to get it, and that means I need to take out my car, which may or may not be working tonight. An unforeseen change of plans combined with confronting yet another issue with the vehicle I rely on basically fucked up my day. Oh, and while I was putting on my shoes Mother told me to get the annoying bag of ads thrown onto our driveway every week.
All of that was what was on my mind as I had to bend down and put on my shoes. And I hear My Fucking Father, whom I was already dreading talking to over pizza tonight, re-enter the house after clearing the deck of the quarter-inch of snow that I did not see fit to shovel off the driveway, and ... to be honest, my fight-or-flight response activate in my body. I needed to escape. Now. And I did -- well, I struggled to put on these Wolverine shoes that go up to my ankles while imagining I was yelling at My Father during the middle of an argument, so I guess I didn't "escape," but that was what my mindset was, and I just got the fuck out of Dodge ... and left the letter behind.
I can see it now. We're eating pizza, and I'm trying to concentrate on the basketball game, and My Fucking Father asks an innocent question, and then he'll ask me about my future. It's my birthday tomorrow, y'all, and I'll be ... 37 ... and he'll wonder what I'm going to do with my life. And I'll stammer and evade, and then he'll ask me why I forgot to put the letter in the mailbox like I said I would, and if I'm crazy. Then, he'll accuse me of being lazy because I didn't shovel the driveway. And then I'll get angry and leave for the gym, even though my car's in rough shape right now.
I have no answers. I don't know why my life isn't going to the way I want it to be. I don't know why I'm still living at home. I don't know how my future's going to look. And goddamn, I don't know why I forgot to mail the letter ... well, I do, but I'm not going to tell him that because he doesn't understand and he probably doesn't care anyway. And I don't know if forgetting to mail the letter is symptomatic of something. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't, I don't know, just please, leave me alone and love me, don't judge me.
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