Writing Challenge: A jelley doughnut to go


A jelly doughnut to go, please

A jelly doughnut to go, please

 

 

 

 

How righteous! How self-absorbed! The more I think about it, the more infuriated I become. He thought he simply had the right to know every last detail of me and there were no past “secrets” that I would, could possibly have or ever have had, for that matter. He didn’t know about “the vault.” It is pretty damn big and “the vault” isn’t getting any smaller with time. As for his indignation, it only made me want to conceal more and more and make more still. I certainly do not feel as though I need to divulge anything that had already been revealed. Why should I feel that my life, my past, my play book is free for anybody to traipse around in? There are secrets about me that nobody will ever learn. Only one of my closest buds will only know some of those and even he will only know some of them. My doctor assumes that she knows all or at least those that I have chosen to release. And that is true. They are only the secrets that I have chosen to tell her. My wife? No. Maybe that will change someday; if I ever get hitched, but for now I’m keeping it all in “the vault,” low; real low. That was all a different time; a different place. Would I do it all again? Well, I couldn’t. I would if I could, but I wouldn’t survive. In fact, I am not real sure that I did, and am very sure that I can’t understand how I made it this far without croaking. I feel like I am on borrowed time and every day is a gift. Sounds religious, born again or something, eh? Nope, not for me; Been there, done that; the religious route, that is. I just found that it wasn’t the right fit. Looking back 30 years or so ago, I know that I am not the same person (for better or for worse). And, if I began to tell a soul about some of my past transgressions, which I have tried, I’d merely be laughed at, scoffed at. Friends and family who have even heard of some of my tales and travails just smile and walk away. I used to think that this was purely out of jealousy and disbelief on their part. Now it is pure frustration and merely fodder for banging out on a QUARTY keyboard. I can only look disapprovingly toward the nearest exit and silently say, “Will that be one jelly doughnut to go?” (As it says in Deuteronomy: Chapter17 of the Bible, Mind Thine Own Bee’s Wax before somebody else minds it for you).  And those adventures; which were very real, were closer to life in the Congo, Heart of Darkness or Col. Walter Kurtz in “Apocalypse Now.” Those memories will have to live out their days between me and a few select pals and also tucked away in “the vault” or someday be blurted out in some psycho ward. Gee, I remember hinting at some of the very least of my distant past in the distant past to my sister-in-law but she wouldn’t go near it with a stick. It seemed that she didn’t even want to believe I could possibly have an alter ego? I just kind of felt like getting some of the general crap off of my chest that had built up over the past 30 years or so. I didn’t even attempt to see if she could deal with some of the other stuff. I don’t know if it was because I didn’t want her to use it all as polite conversation at some cocktail party and somehow making it into the local police reports or if I simply didn’t need Mom or Dad hearing stuff “second hand” that I was once a derelict, and well, a derelict. I wasn’t always the red-haired kid with ice cream and apple pie dripping down my face. No; it was beer, beer and a decade of more beer (and not that non-alcoholic crap). No doubt that it was real beer that lay at the heart of my former drinking problem. But miracle of miracles, I was “cured” cold turkey by the grand hole that beer made in my pockets and the refusal of anybody to really give a shit. Sure, this all must sound like a tale of woe and my own “Failure To Co-Mu-Ni-Cate!” as Sergeant so-and-so screamed in the Bill Murray comedy: “Stripes.” No, it is just a failure to communicate in any way that might make sense, maybe? It’s probably the coke and pot, other drugs, psychotropic drugs and then there is the daily regimen of drugs to control my Epilepsy, compounded with an illness only addressed by regular AA meetings. In retrospect, it might not have been real wise to try some of that funny smelling stuff that some girl dumped in my lap after that concert a millennium ago.  After another while or so I might go dumping all my tales and travails on some unsuspecting person but till then—adios.

(Oh, don’t ALWAYS go believing everything you read; you might not like what you see).      

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