04/28/20: Lungs

Today for whatever reason I didn’t want to get out of bed. I don’t often get excited about the coming days, and I have a lifelong habit of setting alarms that wake me up throughout the night. This is because I was plagued with bad dreams for a number of years and because I never want it to be tomorrow. I never want it to be tomorrow. In my most familiar state, I never want to do anything. I don’t want to wake up or stand up or eat or pretend to like people to maintain peace at work.

Today I didn’t want to get out of bed but I did anyway. I decided that because my job is physically demanding, it might be a good idea to exercise. I put on my only pair of shorts (which are actually very baggy kapris) and went for a jog. My god. I mean really, fuck. My lungs gave out far before my legs. In tech this is called a bottleneck, where one part of a system limits the performance of all the other parts. Ideally in a computer system, all parts should be balanced and maintained and tailored around all other parts so that they work equally hard and in unison. This is not the case with my unhealthy body. I had to stop and walk many times because my lungs felt as if they were going to explode, but never once were my legs sore.

Please Quit Smoking, Mom

I cried at work the other day. Not much and not for long, more like a small fit of swelling tears and a knee jerk reaction to rid myself of them. This falls directly in line with my impressive borderline-awesome ability to avoid dealing with things. Homie can’t deal. I thought about my last words to her. I thought of all the things unsaid. I thought of the straw that broke the camel’s back, or maybe that needle in the haystack. I wondered about the change I might have made if I had just reached out to her at any point in those eight years. We all do. I had the pleasure of driving down to her parents in Oregon shortly after her death and figuring out what to do with her body. I still have funeral home PDFs saved on my computer listing embalming costs and casket options. Her parents and her brothers, my grandparents and uncles felt the same way I think. We all wish we could have done something more; she overdosed in a parking lot for fucks sake. Live and learn. Maybe I’ll write her letters; though my lack of faith leads me to believe that she will never read them, it might make me feel better.

I was in a parking lot when I heard the news. My brother called me crying and told me what happened. The phone call was brief and to the point, which is fine because neither of us really knew what to say. It was as a routine business transaction with a sprinkle of sadness. I imagined her in the car next to me, a white truck maybe. She was gasping for air or maybe overheating. Maybe she felt cold, maybe she passed out and that was that. They found meth and heroin in her system, so maybe she was at peace in her last moments. Did she think of us? I hope she did. I know she did. I hope she felt love for us in those fleeting seconds before she took her last breath, and not guilt about the past. I know she did the best she could and I could never be mad at her for the way things went down. For your sake I hope heaven is real and I hope you made it. I hope hypothetical God saw that you never held malice in your heart, at least not toward us.

Fuck I just want to say hello, and hear the sound of your voice. I can’t even remember what you sound like. I’m crying now trying to recall any one-second sound that you made. Our brains don’t work like hard drives, and most of the time that’s for the better.

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