Hypothetical Dinner for Two

Hypothetical dinner for two.  I've got a rhetorical question for you.  What if, years ago, I was on this menu?  Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Hypothetical glass of champagne.  To celebrate my impeccable disdain.  Do you ever think about me?  In between your perfect life and the mundane.
I'm only curious, of course.

Hypothetical ring on your finger.  An admission this juxtaposition may linger.  You say I'm just beating a dead horse.  And I am agreeing, of course. 
Hypothetical awkward silence at first.  The best laid plans of men are rarely rehearsed.  I'll lean on a cinematic impulse.  I'm just dreaming, of course. 

Hypothetical misstep.  Let's refer to it as regret.  A rhetorical quip escapes from my lips.  Do you wish we had not met?  Did I waste too much of your youth?  Indifference is hard to translate but easy to interpret.  Ambivalence, my dear, should never be a secret.  I can handle the truth.  I'm just kidding, of course.

The honeymoon is over, hypothetically speaking.   As we grow older, I find us more intriguing.  The further apart, any signs of affection are often misleading.  We can argue about life but only one of us is breathing.  I'm drowning in hyperbole again.  With certainty, it's just a matter of when.  No one has ever been killed by a dead horse.  Hypothetical remorse is just rhetorical, of course,

Hypothetical dinner for two.  I've got an unconventional question for you.

Do you miss me? 

Cold Cold World

How's it going to end?  Everyone wants to know.   Show me all your faces before I let go. 

Come, come, come, fire me.  Being human isn't all its cracked up to be.  Come, come, come, hire me.  I can be the sweetest devil heaven has ever seen.  

It's a cold cold world, throw the saints into the sea.   While you're at it, discard me. 

How's it going  to end?  We all want to know.   Show me all your sins before I let go.  Mr. Brightside can't satisfy you.  (Not like me.)  Mr. Big Shot can't pacify you.  (Not like me.)  Come, come, come, fire me.  Being yours is too lonely.  Come, come, come, hire me.  I can be a part time anything. 

It's a cold cold world.  The butterflies don't have wings.  The bees make honey and love, it stings.  It's a cold cold world, throw the saints into the sea.  Take God out of the children and have them pray for me. 

It's a cold cold world, take me as I am.  Take the children out of God and you just have an angry old man. 

How's it going to end?  We're all dying to know.  Let me swim with the saints before you let me go.  Come, come, come, over and over again.

Thanks for being my Friend

Thanks for being my friend.

It's easy to gloss over that phrase when a friend speaks it.  I never did.  His vulnerability was as rare as his sobriety. 

I've got a lot of respect for the vulnerable.  Well, I do now.  It's almost heroic, certainly courageous, to be vulnerable.  Be it, a writer.  Or an addict.  Or a single mother.  Anyone, really.

In this narcissistic age of selfies, materialism and an obsession with celebrity, vulnerability is a lost art.


Make it rain, she said.  In not so many words.  The irony of that phone call was I standing in pouring rain surrounded by friends led by the man that would years later thank me for being his friend.   The details aren't really that significant now.   All I remember was her vulnerability.  She wanted comfort.  She needed it. 

Years later, he said, make it stop raining.  In not so many words.  The details don't matter now.  All I remember was his vulnerability.  He was drowning.  Literally.  Well, he did drown.  Figuratively.

Because time fucking flies, I reflect on the two most meaningful people and moments of my life and remember their vulnerability above all else.  And I realize just how powerless we are.  We can't make it rain nor can we stop it.


I don't thank those I love enough for being my friend.  I am not sure any of us ever do.  I think we take each other for granted as if we are entitled to friendships.  I can count my friends on one hand.  As a man that once had countless friends, that is hard to admit.  But I have to.  My vulnerability is really all I have to give to anyone. 

Back in 2003, the last words of that friend were I will see you soon.  I knew he was goddamned lying.  As I watched him fade off into the distance into the home he would never leave again, I wanted to thank him for being my friend.  I didn't.  I couldn't.  It's my greatest regret. 

I couldn't save him.  I had nothing to offer of substance, really.  I couldn't stop the rain, so to speak.  But I did have the power to thank him.  And I didn't. 

Thanks for being my friend.

Twenty four hours before his last breath, seated across from me in a small family owned pizza place, those words randomly came out of his mouth mid-conversation.  He didn't pause to wait for a response.  He stated those five words and then finished his story about God knows what.  I can't even tell you what we talked about during those three hours over dinner but I do remember that quick proclamation he made. 

As I stated, his vulnerability was as rare as his sobriety.  As was mine at the time. 

Fast forward now twelve years later and it's really my last memory of him.  Well, it's the only one I choose to remember.  Everything else is inconsequential now. 

I could sum up everything I attempt to write with one sentence: Thanks for being my mom.  Thanks for being that girl I fell in love with at the age of sixteen.  Thanks for being my dog.  Thanks for loving me now.   Thanks for loving me then. Thanks for choosing me when you deserve better.  Thanks for missing me when I'm not around.  Thanks for seeing something in me I don't see in myself.   Thanks for being one of those friends I can count on one hand.  Thanks for being one of those countless friends of long ago.

Everything ever written is either a proclamation of gratitude or a genuinely heartfelt apology. 

Everything written is either a cry for the rain to stop or a veiled supplication for the rain to begin.

Thanks for being my friend should be everyone's last words.  Anything else is meaningless.