Eating Crow Beneath the Moonlight of a Thousand Possessions; A Love Story

I have three dogs that sleep beneath the covers of my bed. There are paws in my eyeballs, wagging tales that slap me in the face and harry assholes that rest thoughtlessly against my neck.  Their thirteen-foot-long ears lay damp against my calves and I try not to think about what they have been dragging in. The young one belches in my face and the smell of shit lingers in the air for a moment. He has a full belly and . . . God I wish he would stop doing that.

My partner beside me; breathing, farting, his face angelic in the light of the moon that seeps in from my bedroom window where my 1...2...3...4...5...6 pill bottles sit on the window sill. Exposed. They wave at the neighbors in their stigmatic manner.

We harbor a junkie beneath the stairs. He kicks a heroin habit like an overcrowded steam room in an earthquake; our friend; our brother. In the second bedroom of our disgusting apartment where skid marks the kitchen tile floor and the dogs have teethed on our cabinets, our dining chairs and the trim around the windows; and I often hope if they piss on our carpet enough it will all be one dark, beige color so I never have to rent a steamer; we're not getting our deposit back, a teenager dwells drunk, lazy, up until 5 smoking weed in the house when we've asked her not to, drinking and bringing home ridiculous misfits I once was myself but now I just want to slap hard and kick them the fuck out of my crowded house.

I have a handicapped brother I haven't seen in years, please don't judge me, you don't know the story. But he fell in a pool when he was two and now he's married to a prostitute. Her best friend is now his best friend; a drug dealer with a record, a record of molesting small boys. My brother had money from the settlement. Now he has none. She is black. Now he is black. Regardless of his white, spoiled, privileged suburban roots. But he speaks in Ebonics anyways with that slow, cerebral drawl that makes me want to cry, scream and punch him in the face all at the same time. He says he won't see us unless we accept her as his wife. My mother tried to salvage his trust and his safety but now she is the enemy. She is the money grubbing whore who has taken his freedom. I stay far away because time is precious and he is angry and the target in the pit of my stomach has become too small for any archer to see anyways. I keep my distance because I would rather be happy; and he wouldn't. I keep my distance because guilt and shame and brotherhood and family are the bright and colorful jack in the box you want until you are terrorized by. Eventually, it's best not to open at all. You know the outcome. Turn the handle and twist the coils until they're taught and strained and the fucking clown can't stay put for much longer. Like a toxic family member. . . like my brother. . . and my father, it's best not to crank out an invitation.

I have 8 years worth of coins from the AA meetings I thought I belonged in. I wanted to belong in. Like the sad little girl that lives next door to us, whose lazy stupid mother lets run around the complex knocking on every stranger's door and asking them to play with her, I wanted to be somewhere I belonged. Yes I'm selfish. I'm self-centered. I even get drunk on the occasion....and like it. That big book was my shield against the battles that rumbled deep within me, torturing me as I fought against the most paramount identity crisis the world had ever seen. I faked it. All those poor sons-of-bitches who desperately longed to drink like a "normal" person but knew it was too dangerous and I sat in those dreary, smoke-filled rooms and I desperately longed to drink like an alcoholic, just so I could have a title; an explanation; anything besides all the things I never knew I was. And I donated and I sponsored and I spoke, but I did not be-long; I simply continued to long. I had an 8 year fling with alcoholism. It took 8 years to realize I was better off sticking with my vibrator. What can I say. I'm slow. Very slow.

I have a dual diagnosis that I'm questioning and live in a strange world where I contemplate suicide and my heart nearly explodes when I'm happy but I wonder if that is just me, living, or if I am "psychologically disturbed." Of all my hospitalizations, my favorite was the one with the smoking room and the woman that kept asking me if Christ was my savior. I told her Jesus Christ could go fuck himself...she didn't like that, which made me like it more.

The world could be worse and I could be better and my brother could not be a jackass and my boyfriend could take gas-x and I could muzzle my dog to keep him from eating shit and AA could not be an embarrassing memory and my pill bottles could stop waving at my neighbors, but 'could' are the fingers hanging on by a thread while my feet dangle 2 feet off the ground; hopeful, half-witted and completely unnecessary.

I have underdeveloped; socially awkward; everlasting entertainment; story after story; I hate you don't leave me; smile wrinkles and frown lines and crow's feet around my pretty green eyes; pharmacy on my window sill; corporal discontent; spiritual, emotional, perceptual befuddlement; confinement and release in a heartbeat; eternal chagrin that sometimes I can laugh at; and me. And love. And . . . me.