I have always held a certain resentment regarding how I was born the first child and a Leo. That’s a lot of pressure to experience amid the post-Reagan experience, and in some ways also a very arrogant resentment to even bring up.
There are many Leo-isms I’m very aware of, mildly guilty of, and kind of mad I can’t more wildly roll about in them.
I’ve settled in my 30’s to be the Antiquing Gay when I really wanted to be all along was a slutty Theater Kid. Rawness, realness– LOUDNESS. Covid-19, meet the human experience and know thine task has thence beenst infernally damn’dst’d. But not nearly as forsaken as the Community Theatre cast I’m stuck with in my 40’s when I reach peak post-youth-vengeance. Some of your dads after their ‘justified’ divorces get fancy cars that they ride around in with wildly age-inappropriate others. No no, not I, I’ll start with a UU Choir application before moving on to local theater and then Abandon all Hope ye who oppose me from local school Board. How many marriages will be crushed because of this very outdated, yet rightfully star-powered, production of Old Man River. Do indeed visit the concessions booth, refill that $4 a bottle $8 glass of red and you’ll find out after intermission.
However! I will tell you what in this very moment what I want what I really, really want:
1.) to absolutely forget one of my final memories from my v cursed year five at UMass Amherst where I answered with the very same memey-intro on a virtual blackboard for an abysmally rated 300 level Anthro course (Summer Term Ancient Civilizations) that not a single other soul was attending thinking it’d be lost to Al Gore’s AOL Cyberspace only to find my screed plasters to the class chat time email listserv review:
Complete with a wonky & sad primary colored Ziggurat of Ur, with a bonus artistic interpretation of the Hanging Gardens a la MS Paint.
They still decided I was thence awarded a BS in Anthropology and I think that was the only time UMass Amherst and I ever agreed.
2.) to not feel remotely bad about wanting to develop a meta-melodramatic cigarette addiction and lie utterly listless either in my studio or roof deck and just chain-smoke under the stars, moon, inclement weather, or plague-bearing fog, or what have you, to a very earnest Enya/Enigma playlist.
3.) to note the salty-sweet of those times back in my first engagement in the Aunt Tracy’s School for Wayward Boys where I:
3a.) drove back from volunteering for food at a 3 day music festival in Blue Hills, Maine to drive all the way back to Union on a 1/4 tank of gas in my 1985 Oldsmobile Omega, no cash, no funds, praying, and turning the ignition off once I got to the really high hills.
3b.) told the yacht owner I had been cooking for out of Rockland, that if he actually did want to take me to court for my giving less than a weeks notice over his verbal/financial abuse that I’d be happy to submit the personal account paychecks he signed (under the table), sans viable W-2, as evidence to the court of my extremely malicious wrongdoing.
3c.) was 19, in the middle of a week of being entirely alone, crappy cell service, and was entirely convinced that the noises I heard out on Clair-Lynn’s porch on a moonless and entirely black rural Maine night was actually a Northern Sasquatch and not the far more fearsome hissing Mother Raccoon and her equally awkward Trash Pandettes that I then discovered instead. Please bring me the Northern Sasquatch, thank you.
Officially: I’m sleepy, I’ll continue screaming into the Abyss, my flavorite activity these nights. Well, that was the truth before all this anyhow, anyway. Or just delete this, but never can do from the Wayback Machine.
Was feeling manic, might delete later.
Oh wow, what regrets, regerts, and redux.
Fortuna, Eutyche, hallowed be thy game.