(No, Don't) Fuck It

     I was in a diner reading another take on the common conception that one of the strongest desires (mmm, pie…) behind building a family is to improve upon the one you were dealt, and it hit me that A) this is obvious B) it's missing something C) I want a family D) shit, I absolutely did not plan on that happening as I got older E) I have a lot of work to do F) my given family is a mess and I've always wanted to bring them together without a funeral G) why is my face leaking? What the H) what was I) reading?
It was quite the three minute journey, and it required some serious happenstance via well-timed country croons to bring me out of what has become a three year development deal with manic depressive panic attacks and drifter's remorse. Nevermind (that's how I'll always spell it) what brings me out of what (except that being brought out of something is what I’m talking about). This was a terrifying insight, ill-timed, karmically intense, unforeseen by the youthful arrogance of my naively self-loathing cataracts. I had spent a lot of years and needlessly conserved energy creating a persona, conjuring an identity, building a character lacking in all three. This guy didn't give a FUCK.
Oh, he did the minimum work for a liberal minimum wage. He was a survivor, but his survival was narrowly focused on himself, his party, whatever day-to-day events wouldn't disrupt his selfish need to exist as freely as possible (grossly overlooking said attitude's reliance on the responsibility of others). If this character was enough of a hoot, he'd just live forever on the shallow steam of his syndication. Sitcom immortality. It came a little too close to working, but it didn't. It doesn't (I don’t). People seemed to enjoy it, for a time. A lot of us still do, because there is a truth there. There's an area of personality where I'll just always be a bit smarmy and blasé and, yeah, weird. That’s a bit of a familial trait and taste, from all sides, and dammit, there’s nothing wrong with its harmless manifestation (though it can emerge as the opposite).
Unfortunately, the focus on such a lack of personal growth in more traditional ways stunted overall development. It’s like trying to find a new way to tread water instead of attempting a stroke because you’re pretty sure you’ve seen a beach before; just fox-trotting away from “sour” grapes. I embraced a transient, devil-may-care philosophy because I never saw or felt (understood) the merit in common foundations, and when confronted by the beautiful people who offered an inkling of such ideas, merely as an option towards a shared happiness, possible because I may finally be content with myself enough to offer something besides tasteless asides, I panicked. It was an affront to my psychic anchor, that questionable ideal that I didn’t need anything and could exist as a vapor. And despite the recent popularity, fuck vapor.

- Hmmm, the waitress just muted Everybody Loves Raymond as the original “I Will Always Love You” came on the jukebox. Seriously, is there something wrong with the sprinklers? Just the ones directly above my cheeks? There are none? No, I don’t need another coffee.


There was safety in the lack of material weight. I was free to continue to tread, to float, because it was cost-free in almost every sense. I readied myself to be childless, doubly-divorced, forever rebellious (against whatever ya got) because it fit a lifestyle I had created rather than earned or bothered to desire, and it led to simple loneliness. Sure, it was eye-opening in areas. I’ve acquired some stories, some scars, some self-inflicted penalties rich in their pursuit of the nothing. A lot of that gypsy hobo juice will linger, and I embrace plenty of identity. I can talk, and won’t dismiss what’s brought this new want, because that would negate its merit.

- I feel like I should insert another joke, but that’s part of the growth, right? Except that I’m giggling at “insert"... now "growth"... dammit.


So the hard part (dammit) - Patience. Discipline. Sobriety?
For a bit. I’ve tapped the well of drunken experience, and I love it, but if it’s time for something different then I should feel it differently. I want to stay in this awareness because it keeps offering something new. It’s feeling a different beauty, revisiting a forgotten consciousness, and it saves money. It’s far from the heaviest sacrifice, but one I feel is worth the risk of some possible short-term segregation.
So what is the end-game? Have I frightened everyone into thinking I bypassed all those STD’s only to succumb to the biological itch and tick of baby-fever? Or have I just bored you all to apathetic tears with another neurotic traipse through the muddy mines of a muddled mind? Both? Fair enough. My faith in friends continues to pay off in a lottery I couldn’t be bothered to enter. Supported by the fruits (of looms) of such affirmations, especially within the past year, I’ve arrived in this basic opportunity, which is one of legitimate desire. The right people and places and things have brought out an unknown drive to earn a greater shared life. I want to build, to improve, to welcome the difficulties of extension (DAMN IT!)
I want my family to grow beyond basic maintenance, to experience more together instead of feeling shackled by minimal correspondence through an ever-dwindling medium (ahem). I want my family to compliment another, and so on, and so on, and sons? (and daughters?) I’m not ready for a kid by any means, but it doesn’t terrify me. The proper blinds have been lifted to allow a broader light. There’s more to it than that, but it’s not all meant for display. For now, I’m confident in basic want. It’s not a complete life reversal, just a new direction (do not make a Glee reference, do not make a Glee reference… oh, fuck it (NO! DON’T!) Rather than following everyone else or admitting defeat, it’s a personal revelation of what was so enticing and needlessly overlooked (sure, I’ll keep watching Game of Thrones).
My contingency for this strike of life-lightning never existed, and the jolt has sent me further wayward from cherished destinations than I could have guessed. Yet despite the pain, in a heavy-hearted way, it’s acceptable. The struggle (and it has been/still is) is a welcome battle, a challenge that finally seems to have a worthy end-game. Sure, it’s the journey, not the destination, but that saying works because there is a destination, one worth the daily appreciation of said journey. For the first time in a very long time, said destination seems sunny. Like a day at the beach, and this one looks worth a swim. It’ll just take a few minutes (or months).
Besides, I just ate (pie).


(I was reading Paul Reiser’s “Familyhood”)