And finally….


It is a day just like all the rest, no different than any other.  I keep telling myself that, and mostly I believe it.  It seems to last longer than most, but not so much anymore, not like in the beginning when it was new.  Then it could last for weeks, the day that never ended, but now it is just longer.  But somehow I know that it will eventually hit me, the tears.
Tonight I went to dinner with co-workers, people who don’t know my back story, just work aquaintances, it is nice to not have to explain or to see that look in their faces as they think about it.  I hate that part.  But at the same time I feel alone, wanting to have someone know why I’m a little subdued, not joining in on the conversation, looking at my watch to see what time it is.

I got a text at the table from a friend, “Sending you ++++ energy. Xoxo” that was nice.  Later another friend texted “stopped by and had a drink with your son, and the family”.  I know she is within driving distance of the cemetery.  Looking up I hope no one notices that my eyes are watering.  Getting too painful, I get up and excuse myself to go to the restroom where I look at myself in the mirror and see an old sad guy.   When I get  back to the table I made and excuse and headed back to the Hotel.  

Oh, did I mention that I’m at the beach? I have not seen the beach, not in person at least, but I’m here.  That is another tactic that I use, schedule a meeting so that I’m not at home alone on this day.  There is only three days a year that I dwell on this topic, Birthday, death day and Christmas.  I don’t know why Christmas gets special treatment, but it does.  Today is death day. And I know that it will hit me when I’m alone.

finally, back in my room, and the phone rings, it is my middle Son, he is checking up on me, I know he doesn’t have to say anything, but we chat, delaying the moment.  After he gets off, I have a drink, just a small one, think about taking a shower, then hear the rain outside.  

Rain, like tears brings back the memory of that day, 12 years ago, when my world ended as I knew it.  The day I lost one of my sons.  And finally, the tears come… pouring down my face as I sob at the loss, until my ribs ache.  Then as if by magic it is done.  I can go to sleep and tomorrow will be another day, only 118 days until Christmas… Until then, it is just like any other day.

© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017

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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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