A Broken Bone to Pick.
My pain these days only gets to me because it goes further than physical. I ache in places I have never ached before; places I never knew existed and therefore places I never knew had the capability of hurting. But I am speaking internally here. I am speaking of the broken bone I have to pick with you. I am angry with you. You never call, you never check in or call just to say hello. When I tell you I love you and I miss you, your response is no more emotional than the quick goodbye you give me after screaming that you have to get back to legendary beer pong and typical insanity. When you are forgetting about me over here, just remember something: You are one man down. I am six or seven.
The way I miss you makes me weak in the knees. I am happy here, yes, but it is not as perfect as it could be. I think about how much I wish you were here until I’m weak in the knees. I skateboard to get my mind off things, but the spills I take and the bruises I yield make me weak in the knees, too. I’m left sitting in a world that wobbles, confined by a gimpy leg and a prescription to painkillers that make me weak in the knees in a completely different way. There is nothing I can do to avoid this flimsy feeling in my legs and debility in my disposition; you are not here to provide me with a distraction from all the things that bother me the most in the world.
I think about you guys all the time; about picking up the phone and calling you every time I get the chance. But I figure it best not to bother you so often. You are too busy living your lives in a completely different way than I am, and the three thousand miles between us makes it inevitably difficult to maintain continuous crew communication. The distance is so expensive it hurts to think about trekking just for the comforting feeling of your embrace; your hand over my pain. I understand, though. I remember sitting on the couch you’re sitting on now. I remember being swept up by the cloud of insanity that inspired our audacious endeavors. I remember not wanting to be burdened by anything from the outside world, because I felt too enveloped by how perfect every situation was and how well every story told. I remember sitting on the couch you’re sitting on right now as you hang up on me in a desperate attempt to call the next game of beer pong. I remember sitting there and doing the exact same thing to everyone that didn’t mean anywhere near as much to me as you did.
I knew this would happen. I am optimistic about us, but I knew things would turn out this way. I know we are life-long friends. I know I’m going to make beautiful babies with Jay Belanger. I know that when I tell you I miss you, you realize that maybe you miss me too. But it is hard for us to have friendships that will last our entire lives when our entire lives won’t start until we’re together again. And we are all too busy living the most influential parts of our lives that it feels as if spending them apart will only weaken our bonds if it ever stops weakening my knees.
I strap on my headphones and sit out on my stoop with a cigarette all the time just as an excuse to concoct the most ideal daydreams. I imagine I have it all and that you are here, laughing with me about the stories we wrote in our minds the night before and read to each other the morning after. I imagine we are sitting there like we have a thousand times before, watching the fog roll in over the city and planning the route we’ll skateboard after the roads are practically abandoned. I imagine you asking the most frequently asked question in this city. “How is this place so perfect?” you’ll ask. I’ll just laugh and say I used to ask the same question until I realized that it would always go unanswered. I will tell you the stories of the nights I sat on my stoop with a cigarette and realized it was actually not perfect at all, because you were not there.
Please don’t let me go another day thinking you’re slowly forgetting about me. My knees are getting too weak for that.