EDIT
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MAKING PROGRESS
Man, if I had a dollar for every bag of bones who up and kicked the bucket right when I needed them the most, I would have two whole dollars. And it's not like I can even be mad at him! That old geezer put up one hell of a fight, same as Gran did, but in the end cancer got them both. Doctor Nathan Katowsky gave me one hour a day two times a week for more than seven years, and he only ever asked me for one thing: You put in the same good work that I put in, and we will figure the rest out as we go. I tried, Dr. K. You're one of the few who knows just how hard I do try...and I'm going to keep trying. You gave me this journal and told me to write it down--write it all down--and all this time I've left it blank. I told you I didn't want you to make fun of my handwriting, which somehow was even worse than your doctor's chicken scratch (yeah, you got a good laugh out of that one, didn't you?), but I think we both knew that was a lie. I just wasn't ready then.
But I'm ready now.
I wish he would stop drawing me.He always catches
me in these moments I never want anyone to see.
No, that's not right. I shouldn't start with Melker. That's weird, isn't it? But it's hard to know where to begin. Dr. K was easy. This whole song and dance is because of him. And when I think of him, I think of Gran, and damn it if that doesn't open up a whole different can of worms. I've always had a soft spot for the early bird special kind of people. Gran always used to say: If you had been born back when I was a girl, things would have turned out a lot different for you, chipmunk. Oh god, that's right. Chipmunk. Funny what pops into your head. But the rule was right down everything, right? Anyways. Seniors either go in one of two ways; they have the potential to be the nicest or the meanest folks you'll ever have the chance to meet. Either way, I'd still take geriatric mean over any other kind of mean, because it's never without reason. Honest. Old people are honest. I like honest. Mammy Marie is honest. The first time I met her, she said there was no way in hell she was going to rent her duplex to a ragamuffin like me. How are you going to take care of my house when you can't even take care of yourself? Leave it to me to start crying outside the front door of a perfect stranger. She didn't bat an eye either. That day she told me to quit my blubbering and come inside, and that she wasn't going to lie, Apartment B needed some work...then again, so did I. It's been almost three years since that day, and while she's still the first to tell me to shave my face--that I'm starting to look like Grizzly Adams--even she can't deny that I cleaned up that shoebox studio of hers. (At least better than I did the rest of my life.) And that's just my landlady! Then there's Mister Epstein. He's the owner of the deli downstairs. Mister Epstein never gave me half the hassle Mammy Marie did, but that's not to say he isn't his own brand of trouble. If Mammy Marie is the tough love in my pseudo family, Mister Epstein is the living embodiment of a millennial troll: all five foot three inches of his stout, stubborn, stereotypical Jewish existence on God's green earth. We bonded over stuff like Primanti Brothers sandwiches and french press coffee. Stupid stuff. Small stuff. Things that seem insignificant from the outside looking in. Mister Epstein just gets it. I picture myself being just like him as an old man. Granted, I would need to shrink a good six inches and work on my Buddha belly (A Jew with a Buddha belly? Ironic!), but there are worse things. All jokes aside: I've never met a bigger man than the one who disappears every time he walks behind the counter to assemble some lochs and bagels, or behind the cash register to ring up a customer.
I don't know. I feel like it's a waste of time to write down the basics. I mean, half of this shit is already in my file as it is, and that's the full on head shrinking subject matter! This is supposed to be therapeutic. This is supposed to be some sort of cathartic experience, but hell if I'm getting anything out of any of this right now. Can't hurt to try the other way, I guess; take a page out of the doc's book and start with the easy stuff:
My name is Larsen Isaac Pryce.
I was born on February 29, 1992. That year was a leap year. A person born on February 29 is called "leapling". In non-leap years, some leaplings celebrate their birthday on either February 28 or March 1, while others only observe birthdays on the authentic intercalary date, February 29. I'm the latter. Sure, I may look on the far end of twenty five, but I'm actually only six. Or, at least, that's my story (read: excuse) when someone tells me to act my age. I never knew my father. My mother's name is Lydia Isabella Pryce. She never wanted me, but you know how the catholic church is. I think if I had to pick one thing I didn't like about my Gran--I'm talking "gun to my head," forced to choose something--it would be that: the catholic guilt trip. I'm pretty certain if it hadn't have been for Gran, Lydia would have scraped me out with a coat hanger or dropped me off at the nearest fire station the first chance she got. Oops. Sorry. That was kind of macabre, wasn't it? No matter. Morbid or not, it's the truth. When the opportunity arose, she jumped ship and got the hell out of dodge. She married way above her station and dumped her baggage (i.e. me) tout suite. I doubt her husband even gave her an ultimatum; my guess is she came up with the idea all on her own. Sure, Mr. and Mrs. Money Bags sent me a card and some cash for every holiday, because what kid doesn't feel the love when reading well wishes written in thesentimentalobligatory scrawl of their mother's hand: Remember to tell Grandma I wrote. Catholic guilt is real, I'm telling you.
I feel like I got more than a little off track there.
Let's try this again ~
My name is Larsen. I am twenty five years old. I was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania but grew up about forty minutes South of the city, in a little industrial town called Charleroi (shawl-er-oy). I don't think I have an accent; that is, until I drop one little yinz and everybody laughs at the blue haired boy from the 'Burgh. The summer after my grandma died, I drove out to Lancaster county thinking I'd shack up with some Amish chick--you know, someone who didn't know any better than to settle for a polished turd--but instead of stopping...I just kinda kept going. First it was Philadelphia. Bleh, I swear my body rejected that place like a faulty liver. Next up was New York. Yeah, that didn't last long either. Now, I know I may be a narcoleptic insomniac, but believe me when I say even a whole fistful of Ambien couldn't put the people in that city to sleep. I really don't know what it was about Vermont that got me to stop and stay (I mean, aside from the fact that my car literally fell apart on Interstate 89) but it was the first place I didn't feel stuck, you know? I put roots down and Dorset has been my home ever since.Hmm . . . What else?
My all-time record for corner pocket slapshots landed is seventeen in a row. I am a diehard Pittsburgh Penguins fan. I don't think hockey gets nearly enough air time compared to other major leagues, especially considering it's the only team sport where you're encouraged to use both your body and your equipment as a weapon. (Okay, that's a lie.) But hey! The penalty for high sticking is only five minutes in the box. Have you ever seen Babe Ruth club a guy to death with a baseball bat and be back on the field by the seventh inning stretch? Not a chance! And I know, I know: it's kinda weird to think I could go from something like hockey to piano, but if I had to choose one, I'd hang up my skates tomorrow, no contest. I think Mozart is overrated, but I'm a big Bach fan, and I'm learning that Chopin has his moments too. Classical music has this funny way of making sadness sound so resoundingly beautiful. Is it really any surprise that a guy like me would connect with that type of music? Something proves there is merit in melancholy? For all the things I suck at, I play a mean piano.
Ugh!What am I writing, a dating profile?
There was a time I would have laughed at the thought of such a thing. There's a time the rest of the world would have as well. And while not much has changed from the outside looking in, considerably more has taken place--progress made--when I look inward. Don't get me wrong, no amount of head shrinking could clean up the mess I see when I look in the mirror, but I finally have people in my life who have a understand and accept me wholeheartedly. Even in my most dire need, I never wanted friends. I didn't think I deserved them. I still struggle with that, to be honest. I don't know how I got so lucky. How does that saying go? Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern.
There was a time I would have laughed at the thought of such a thing. There's a time the rest of the world would have as well. And while not much has changed from the outside looking in, considerably more has taken place--progress made--when I look inward. Don't get me wrong, no amount of head shrinking could clean up the mess I see when I look in the mirror, but I finally have people in my life who have a understand and accept me wholeheartedly. Even in my most dire need, I never wanted friends. I didn't think I deserved them. I still struggle with that, to be honest. I don't know how I got so lucky. How does that saying go? Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern.
Leane really was an accident.
I mean, I actually concussed the girl. That's how we met. Who smiles at a perfect stranger after being hit in the face with a door? That reaction alone was cause for concern, nevermind the fact that pretty face of hers had the power--then and now--to lay me out flatter than I did to her in front of the coffee shop. I had to have apologized fifty times without taking a breath, but she barely missed a beat. That's just who Leane is: sweet and kind and...forgiving. In other words? Exactly what I needed my very first friend to be. I would have done anything that first day to make up for that goose egg on her forehead. I walked her to the clinic, and then home, and for some reason I'll never understand, she invited me up to her apartment. To be perfectly honest, I didn't want to go. Not because I wasn't doing internal cartwheels, but because do you have any idea how many doors existed between outside that building and inside her home? I was absolutely convinced, on that day and the weeks to follow that when that dizzy spell from being conked on the noggin wore off, so would my welcome.
But as those weeks turned to months without the other shoe dropping, her company became less of an exercise in don't fuck this up and more of an effort to spend as much time with her as a day's length would reasonably allow. We spent Thanksgiving together. We spent Christmas together. I caught her how to ice skate. She gave me second degree burns with her apple pie (worth it though). Leane is an angel, and I don't use that word as any sort of hyperbole. Of all the things I could exaggerate, her being the greatest good I have ever known is not one of them. For someone who exudes only light and laughter and love, I never want her life to know darkness; so I will try to be more than just the guy who walks her home at the close of her shift every Wednesday. I'll be the lighthouse on her shore. I'll be the batteries in her flashlight. I'll be the match for her candle and the jumper cables for when that piece of shit car of hers won't start. And even though she can't make a cuppa Joe to save her life, I would choke down as many cups of diner coffee as she cared to pour me.
Thunder buddies for life.
And Melker is a pretty happy coincidence.
If you thought my induction into Leane's life was rough, Melker's was probably worse. I didn't push him down a flight of stairs or anything, but I did pants him the very first time we met. No, really. I'm pretty sure he hated me at the start, which was far less surprising than how quickly we both came around to the other's company shortly then after. With Melker, it's not at all difficult for me to map out the milestones in our time together: when I became we, when mentorship became friendship became relationship...there is nothing that has existed since that man waltzed into my dreams and life (respectively) that was not meticulously decided therein.
Some flowers grow best in the shade of a tree.
Redwood tall and willow thin, I looked up at Melker before looking up to him. He just has that sort of commanding presence to him, that aura, you know? Power. Class. It's what I'm used to be intimidated by. That was exactly his intention in the beginning too. I have a habit of sticking my nose into other people's business, and in this instance, my nebbing--as Gran called it--paid off more than it had probably ought to. After that initial bout of standoffishness and mutual hostility had worn off, after Melker proved himself to be more than the bully I saw at first blush, well...all he had to do was say us instead of just me when referring to himself in company and I was a goner.
I never met a fox I liked nor trusted --
First impressions are often wrong. His wasn't. Melker is a predator; a beast; a wolf with no need for sheep's clothing. As if any shepherd could resist his wily charms, for even as silver tongue gives way to gnashing teeth, a sacrificial lamb would only count itself lucky to have those fangs at its throat. How much more fortunate then am I? To know the monster he can be, and to love him all the same? I'd sell my soul to no other devil. He frightens me, not because of what he is capable of, but because he knows I possess that same darkness...however deep, however dormant. And if he can persuade me there, dare I believe what I've seen with my own eyes now? That I can pull heart strings the same as a marionette, turning this manipulator--a puppeteer in his own right--into a nurturer, a secret role played solely for me? You'd never know him: that Melker. My Melker. His unfaltering patience and unflinching confidence in my growth have made me take a second look at myself, wanting to see what he sees in me. And that's progress.
-- not until I met him.
So, I guess that means Warner's a pattern.
Not argyle. Not paisley. Not gingham. Perhaps houndstooth or herringbone. Maybe chevron. Something angular. How can someone who exists as such a sharp shape in life be so impossibly soft? Whatever his pattern, I know the color. Pink. For me, all you have to do is take one look—hell, even a passing glance—and you could take an educated guess at what my favorite color is. With Warner, it’s different. His is a quieter, aural glow, but quiet does not mean the light he exudes is dim nor dull. His brand of sunshine is as bright as they come; it’s intentionally blinding, I think, because it makes it harder to see the sadness that way. He could never hide that from me though, not even when I only knew him as a screenname: JustWarner.
From the first time I tuned into his Let’s Play YouTube channel, from the first moment I heard his iconic sign-off (This is JustWarner, just warning y'all. Be nice to each other, it's really not that hard.) I identified with him on a deep and profound level. Much like old people, bullied kids tend to go in one of two ways. Either they perpetuate the cycle of abuse and become bullies themselves, or they head for moral high ground and become beacons of hope. Warner shines as brightly as he does, provides solace, safe haven, and sanctuary to more than 53,000 subscribers (myself included) in half an hour segments daily, because he’s just that. I loved him then, from afar, as dearly as I do today, but I know him better now. The real him. And that part of him was the part I recognized from the very beginning…because it resembled my own mold. We’re the same; the Sad Boys Club. It takes one to know one and we’ve been through a lot of the same shit. Not just that, but we deal with life in a similar (and not always healthy or altogether positive) way. We differ a little bit too though, sure: he’s a lamb, in need of a shepherd, if not a flock, and me? Well, I like to think myself more of a sheepdog.
Now more than ever I take pride in playing that role; his guardian, his protector. I’ve never been able to stick up for myself in my entire life, but I would fight tooth and nail—kicking and screaming, all the way to hell and back again—to ensure the hurt he’s known he will never have to endure again. It’s pain that I refuse to even put down on paper, and not just because it’s not my story to tell, but because I refuse for that to be the narrative. Not our narrative. If ever there was a relationship I identify with an the unconditional love of a we, it’s my friendship with Warner, even more so than my bond with Melker. Nothing and no one has ever felt more right or real to me. He’s the family I’ve chosen and will continue to choose, even if it means forsaking all others. He is my soulmate, my heart’s twin. My person.
You could guess, but you'd be wrong.
My favorite color isn't blue, it's purple.
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But...what the hell does the make Claude then?
There's another version of the same saying that makes more sense: Once is a mistake, twice is a trend, three times is a habit. (To be written. Paragraph about Claude.) -
PUT THIS SOMEWHERE
Musical Therapy
▷ Panic! at the Disco - Trade Mistakes
▷ Metallica - Enter Sandman
▷ Set It Off - I'll Sleep When I'm Dead
▷ SYML - Mr. Sandman
▷ Bo Burnham - Nerds
▷ Mika - We Are Golden
▷ Jinkx Monsoon - Creep
▷ Of Mice & Men - Glass Hearts
▷ I Fight Dragons - The Geeks Will Inherit the Earth
▷ Eiffel 65 - Blue
▷ Weezer - Undone (The Sweater Song)
▷ Barenaked Ladies - Who Needs Sleep
▷ Nirvana - School
▷ We the Kings - Just Keep Breathing
▷ Rise Against - Make It Stop (September's Children)
▷ Senses Fail - The Priest and the Matador
▷ Panic! at the Disco - Camisado
▷ Late Night Alumni - Empty Streets
▷ Marshmello - Alone
▷ The Killers - Be Still
▷ Matchbox Twenty - Unwell
▷ Bright Eyes - If the Brakeman Turns My Way
▷ Pierce the Veil - The Divine Zero
▷Set It Off - Horrible Kids
