This will hurt me more it will you…


That phrase was something that provided very little solace to my ears as my mom was about to take a belt to my ass.  

But as a parent I became to know that intimately, not that I beat my children, I didn’t, but I did follow through on discipline, even as I remembered that cowering child afraid of my ever violent mother, meeting out the promised punishment when my boys exceeded the stated bounds. I hated asking them to forfeit their toys or spend time in their rooms or foregoing an outing to the zoo.  It did hurt me more than them. 

Now it comes with a different more twisted meaning, maybe not twisted, but sideways. When I hurt a friend through some sleight or transgression, the hurt I impose, after I realize I was the cause, is great, and though I know my insensitive action caused pain or suffering, I feel that it caused me as much being the source. 

I know that’s of little solace to my friend who I’ve wronged, being on the I’m sorry side way too often, but it’s true. 

When I realized I was wrong the guilt and self reproach are instant and unremorseful, the weigh heavy and constant. 

For my one friend I like to remind her of the concept of Ahimsa, self forgiveness, when she says that she hates herself for some transgression. Quick to offer this advice, I’m slow to take it myself, instead needing to feel at least the pain I caused in equal measure. I suppose that’s human. 

But I know that for me, it should hurt me worse than you. 

Take a breath, say I’m sorry, feel the pain then, Ahimsa. 
© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017.

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Lost, out of touch…

It’s happening again. That feeling of fuzzy reality, lost in time. Been thinking seriously about what it might be like if I were dead. Mostly dead inside already, the body just hanging on. 

This time I know better, having spent 8 years in depression over the loss of my son. I know the signs, and I know that I’ll never kill myself; it’s too hard to let go. But, the siren call is still there and it is tempting to just heed the voice and drive around the line of cars waiting at the railroad tracks and drive my tiny car under the train. Would be quick, so tempting.

But from eight years of experience (and a few bungled attempts) I know I’ll never do it. Too pragmatic. Still it sucks being stuck lost and out of touch, feeling sorry for myself and angry at the normal world. 

So as a hedge, I’ve started drinking again. Not eating just drinking, I’m just not hungry. When I see old friends, everyone says I’ve lost weight. No diet works like lonely and depressed.  ‘You look great, have you been working out?’ I just smile and try to look normal.  It’s becoming more difficult each day, the frozen smile, the false platitudes.  

Difficult but so routine, I know the drill, show too much pain and they pounce. Good meaning and all, but I don’t want their help or pity, I just want something to make me feel. Feel something besides self loathing and anger, something not numb. 

The feel of a calming hand on my face, or a warm body next to mine, soft lips on mine, those things I miss. Those are things of the living, not meant for me in my place out of touch.  Maybe someday I’ll deserve those things, but today I’m lost. 

© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017.

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At least it’s not Paris…

Sitting here, looking across the Danube and my stomach is not the only thing that’s empty. My heart feels light, but not in a good way, I have this beautiful view, so romantic and all I can think is that I wish I weren’t alone. 

To be alone is a wonderful thing, the freedom alone is worth it, but sometimes late in the evening, when I’ve just watched a spectacular sunset and I lean over to share a thought of wonder only to realize that my lover is in my head. To have the freedom is a double edged sword that cuts as it loosens the bonds of obligation. 

I’ll be better tomorrow after a few drinks and some meaningless sex. I used to scoff at those who paid for it, but with freedom comes loneliness that can sometimes be fixed with a little cash and caution. Tonight is one of those nights. 

At least it’s not Paris…
© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017.

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Still life


Sitting alone in the corner, I’m comfortable alone. That doesn’t mean that I like it, but it’s easier sometimes. Being alone. 

A jazz ensemble is playing an ambient piece, I’m at the monthly evening event at my local museum of art. I always come thinking I’ll meet a some smoky eyed beauty that loves art and ennui, well hit it off, have a mad tear about town, make passionate love in romantic old world locals then settle into deep philosophical discussions on art and the decay of society interspersed with talk of sex and libertine ideals. 

It never happens, yet I’m hopeful. I know that cool chick is out there and she’s not met an equally cool dude and is thus still available. Frankly I don’t have the looks or the money to pull that one off anyway, because to jet around the old world I have to make money at my ordinary job. 

Still I’m hopeful staring at my still life in the canvas of my dreamscape.  She’s out there and I just need to get my nose out of this phone and look up so I don’t miss her.  


©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2017

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Pink snow

Sitting at the traffic light steaming about something inconsequential, the wind gusted, the sky grey and ominous as a storm was brewing. It looked like snow I thought to myself.  But since it was late summer the crepe myrtle was still in bloom and as the wind raged, the pink petals from the crepe myrtle swirled around my car like a pink snow storm.  The surreal thought of pink snow lifted my soul in wonder and delight as I imagined a field of pink ankle deep and fragrantly sweet as I lay back and did the snow angel thing. The pink petals sticking to my clothes and hair their soft touch caressing my arms and back. Drifting off into the daydream I missed the light as people calmly pulled around my dreamy face, afraid to wake me from my day sleep. Fully awake I watched the pink snow as I patiently waited the next change of the light, my heart light and airy. 

©The autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2017

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The mind is a terrible thing…

I think that was a dry line made in a comedic movie, but it’s true.  

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Celestial Navigation 

I’ve been thinking about the stars. 

It helps that I’m sitting on the beach in south Florida, the white noise of the waves speaks and quietens my inner screaming. That annoying voice that says you’re found wanting, never good enough. The ocean just is, and that is accepting and a comfort. 

Back to the celestial bodies, not the tiny ones on the beach, but the ones on the celestial sphere. I marvel at the idea that knowledge passed down through the eons allowed the ancient cultures to travel by the stars. It wasn’t until recent time that an accurate clock could even work on a ship yet the Polynesian people were able to find there way without, just by watching the stars. 

Putting myself in that celestial perspective in instantly calmed by the certitude that humanity can look outward to see direction beyond the banal and stupidity of the present. I’m encouraged by the thought that it will always be so, the stars, even long after we are gone. 

Thinking about the stars. 

©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2016

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