the brain trust at my house sat on the outside porch all last night and rehashed the entire closet of skeletons. we added body language, analyzed metadata, multiplied metatarsal fragments, DNA, hairs and bodily fluids found at the uh, under the couch… just figured it all out. though i’m no math whiz, i know when it all doesn’t add up. it’s truly amazing how much we let go by us when inside we really want the math to work out. but inventory day, counting the left withs and subtracting the outgoingz to match with the incoming… is a day of…well, reckoning. it’s all right there in the data.
in the end, the good chairman (senator evaroosky, CT-missouri) acknowledged the glaring logics shortfall, right after excuse number (catch this) 23, shook his head solemnly and said, “you’re right. it just dudn’t jive duz it? damn. she seemed sincere to me…”
my wry smile hid the heartache as i got up to ponder the new findings. i exhaled, and thought to myself:
“well OK. so you figured out what you already knew. what did you expect anyway? to find out that the obvious lies were not so obvious? quit wasting time and energy. get up. move on. be done with it…”
so much fucking wasted time on a glimmer of hope that what i had suspected to be true wasn’t after all…that it was really my own insecurity’s reflection. actually i think she had suggested that to me once.
did i hope that universal truths would be proven false, that actually having no proof would translate into innocence, and that her deafening silence to questions only she could answer were really…uh, well… an expression of dumb love that froze her up, and she just couldn’t explain her true feelings in a meaningful, coherent way? all smoke and mirrors buddy-boy, wake the fuck up!
the famous INDICATORS were guess what? indicating…pointing in a direction…providing guidance in otherwise non-specific art/science. the art of understanding the meaning of one’s actions despite implicit denials of what those actions mean.
Hmmm… the INDICATORS were not so much hocus pocus after all- (or the twisted, metaphorical bullshit that i was regularly accused of pulling out of my ass). yet incredulously sometimes even i can be led off the trail, albeit momentarily, by some wacked out blowhard insisting that i am the fraud.
it’s like catching someone holding your money, wallet, credit cards, and favorite lamp standing outside your home saying they were trying gather up your things for you in case the house caught fire. they feel you should thank them instead of freaking the fuck out. NOT.
and like my daddy used to say, “only the nose knows for sure.”
and just like my daddy, i can still smell the aroma of freshly minted bullshit at fifty paces…and just whom…i mean really… who is surprised by that?
no one. not today. not even insecure little ole me.