Yoke lifted
When Firecracker and I were little girls, we were obsessed with orphans, babies abandoned in dumpsters, and Satanic ritual abuse. When we got new dolls, we freed them gingerly from their plastic shackles, our brows knit. What kind of monster, we wondered, would tie a little child up that way? We knew it would be a long and arduous process, nursing our wounded lambs back to health, teaching them to trust again, etc. But we were up to the task!
Nobody ever actually hurt us, and there was no hard neglect. Our parents were just hippies who wanted to be our best friends and compare bad trip stories and stuff.
Hippies: sigh. But at least they didn’t name either of us Joyful. I knew a girl named Joyful who had to be hospitalized so she wouldn’t starve herself to death. Funny/not-funny/funny, right?
Still, Firecracker and I were a couple of basket cases!
Road kill gave us nightmares. We could not stop thinking about cemeteries. We believed that people who stepped on ants were murderers. But what if you stepped on something microscopic, and killed it? Wasn’t that JUST AS BAD? We thought about that while we were trying to fall asleep at night.
Firecracker did a lot of perseverative counting. I was an extreme nail-biter: Band-Aids, blood. Also, we felt guilty about everything! I have this memory of Young Firecracker, aged nineish, sitting on the edge of my bed with her arms wrapped around herself, saying, “I feel guilty about everything.”
In retrospect, it’s actually so cute! A couple of guilt-wracked l’il moppets were we. Ah, youth.
I still feel guilty for stupid shit. Like: I have thought about quitting my job every day for the last year. I’ve been working there for eight motherfucking years, and I’ve had enough. Except, my thinking goes, how will I possibly break it to them I’m not coming back next year? They’ll be so, so, so disappointed in me. They’ll be mad at me. They’ll yell.
I am such an idiot. And seriously, do I think I’m Jesus or something? That special and irreplaceable? Well, maybe a little bit.
On Monday, I told my boss I don’t want a new contract.
She asked me if I was sure.
Yes, I said. I’m sure.
She made a sad face.
I told her I was sorry.
She said I should do what was best for me. Sweetheart. Then she hugged me, twice.
I worried for a fucking YEAR about that?
5 Responses to “Yoke lifted”
1 Left Hook 15 March 2007 @ 1:02 pm
wait, did Boss call you “Sweetheart” or is that your God-complex editorializing away?
2 Pistol Whip 15 March 2007 @ 7:08 pm
f’realzzz
3 Firecracker 16 March 2007 @ 2:47 pm
That is the funniest thing I’ve ever read. We actually lied in bed worrying about micrscopic bits feeling lonely or hurt. It is sweet. And fucking crazy.
Anyway, yesterday, I had to have a drink because I felt so guilty not being able to help the PIANO MOVERS. There is no way I can help piano movers, you know?
4 Pistol Whip 16 March 2007 @ 8:01 pm
well, i happen to know a way you could’ve helped those piano movers.
if you catch my drift.
etc.
5 Firecracker 22 March 2007 @ 11:51 am
Maybe, but they were so sweaty.
Now you have to give this one a bj jokes tag.
Leave a Reply