Into the Looking Glass
I know the face I have to wear in order to be accepted, approved, and enjoyed by other people. Trouble is the darned thing doesn’t fit. It rubs blisters, and I’m quite allergic to it, since lies make me break out in a rash. Maybe that’s why I do better with animals. At least they’re honest about their needs: give ‘em a litterbox and some kibble, and they’re pretty happy. Oh, and leave the toilet lid up.
Society has a whole cabinet of DRINK ME bottles it would be tickled to see me tip, from shrinking elixirs to passivity potions. Alice was the only sane one in that rabbit hole, you know. She may have been stoned, but the Mad Hatter and the Queen of Hearts and that stupid cat were the true sociopaths. They’re all still out there, too, trying to get us to be sheep or convince us we are the odd ones. I AM odd. But it’s a GOOD kind of odd.
I’ve always said I have no regrets. The choices I made may not have been good ones, but they are what they are. The bell can’t be unrung, the pooch can’t be unscrewed. Lately, though, I’m beginning to wish I had been wilder when I was young, and had been able to recognize fun when it was staring me in the face. There are benefits to being chaste and boring, namely I’m not walking around with some sort of disease or a rap sheet. But what memories did I make? What tales of youthful indiscretion can I tell?
Let’s see. There was the time… no. Kissing a guy isn’t a story. I swear a lot these days, mostly to myself, but that’s not much, either. Umm… how about the time a bunch of us went to a satanic church in the woods, and the ROTC scared the crap out of us? Nah, that’s not much. It’s a good story, but not really rebellious or anything.
I lost my underwear skinny dipping in a spring. That’s it. Stuck ‘em in my pocket when I thought I heard somebody coming and got dressed underwater, only they weren’t there when I got out. I had to break back into the spring later to find them before the spring’s owner did. I know there have to be other things, but I honestly can’t remember a one. My dad used to tease me about finding footprints in the headliner of my ‘70 Mercury Montego. It took at LEAST 5 years before I figured out what he was suggesting.
I am such a hellchild.
Later.
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