Right now it's raining from my eyes. They hurt so much, and yet the rain pours down in broken streams. It's like a drought, a flood, at the same time. I don't know why, it doesn't make sense. I don't feel like thinking about it. At the moment, I feel sad, and yet I feel an odd sense of joy. It's all right, and I know that. But it's still raining, raining from my eyes, while the desert is still parched and burning. Today was just like any other day, except perhaps a bit worse. I know so many others must have felt the rain in their eyes before I have, but I don't think it's the same thing. None of this is the same for anyone. And that is why, right now, it is raining from my desert eyes. Everyone takes things differently, and sometimes it's hard to feel fine when something happens. It's raining from my eyes, and that's okay.
Still groggy from too much to drink, too much partying, too much of everything the night before, he coughed, turned over in his messed up bed, fumbled for his phone found it tangled in the blankets and slowly dialed the number written in ink on the palm of his hand, double checking every time he punched a key that it was right, with the hope that whoever picked up could tell him what had happened after he lost consciousness. A woman answered seemingly in the same groggy state he was in. Hello, he said. Sorry I don't remember your name. Your number is written on the palm of my hand. I hope you're okay. You stayed with me last night here in my apartment I guess you know.
Sorry, but you have the wrong number, the woman said, coughing a little as she hung up.
I am a child of many fathers and a son of many mothers. Of course I have but one biological father and mother, but their ships have strayed. Their rudders cracked a whack, slipped the knack. Now I'm orienting my journey on self-selected parents. They shine like the brightest stars in the darkest night, and they guide me to my destinations. They set me on the right way. Some of these pseudo-parents died a long many years ago, but their guidance and advice is captured in dusty books with aging language. The language may age, but the wisdom remains. It persists through the decay. It manifests... wait, one of my fathers advised against using that word, and I think he is right. Sometimes my parents disagree. Their wisdom conflicts. But they have advised me to weigh the perspectives and make my own judgement. They have advised me to do my best. To try things out for size. To analyze my results. To evaluate the prize. One thing I know is that all of my parents love me.
We have talk she said. what about he said. You staying downstairs all the time alone. I don't like it she said. Get used to it because that's where i want to be. I have things to do he said. What things do you have to do down there she said. Things. none of your business he said. well if its none of my business you can start cooking for yourself from now on because I got things to do myself. I'm going to stay upstairs by myself and do what I want while you do what you do downstairs, but what kind of marriage will we have then, she asked. A happy one he said.
Betty and her new face arrived at the party late. Everyone turned and gasped. They hadn't seen her for months. They'd heard she was having work done on her face but no one there in the room thought much about it until then. But seeing her looking like she did in person with her lips filled up and puffed out like they were and her eyes made up dark and sitting at an awkward slant and wearing a slinky dress someone 30 years younger should not be wearing and it all added up to too much. No one knew what to do or whether they even wanted to talk to her. Betty sensed that, saw people their back to her not wanting to talk or even acknowledge her being there. Maybe they didn't know what to say. Betty dropped her head and moved into the shadows just then a big golden retriever worked it's way through the crowd and came up to her and stood and wagged and said with its eyes pet me, you'll feel better if you do.