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Tuesday 10/28/25

Damn. Would you look at that.

You’re probably just tired. Who wouldn’t be?

I say those words to myself so often it’s like I’ve stopped understanding their meaning as words and I’m this raw animal trying to process cadences except they’re mine.

But tired or not I’d piss the bed of my life if that meant waking up from what’s hard to believe isn’t a nightmare if I wasn't already running a marathon without a finish line that has all of these other races inside of it.

The side hustles. Mom and pop. And not the type of store. Who has the money? Sounds great, let’s all look out for each other, boo to corporations and billionaires, but you aren’t even looking out for your sanity when you’re trying to stretch every last dollar around the block and it’s snapping back and slapping you in the face inside of six inches while it disappears.

I wonder if there’s ever been a mother with the sweat still on her who looked at her kid after they were born and thought, “Someday I’m going to need taking care of, and I might be fucked if you don’t do it, because probably no one else will.”

Talk about pissing the bed. If I’d known everything my parents wouldn’t be able to manage for themselves, turtles on their backs for what remains of the duration, and how much they’d require of the kind of care that tests the far edges of love way beyond the markers of asking and answering, out where doing is just doing, those words could have found a place in my thoughts on the days I met my kids.