What a coincidence it would be if I expressed my dismay at required physical signatures, and had to meet my ex tonight. Outside, at a restaurant, I can meet him at the fence. I’m sure he’ll show up dirty, with ripped clothes – he dresses like a fucking slob in ways that must indicate an underlying mental condition – and I’ll graciously stand up from my glass table and full glass of wine, remove a folder from my purse, furnish a pen, and have the entire town (it’s a hilltop restaurant) watch me free myself from that ragged ass street urchin.
I feel worst for my family. They know me, and they know that I am a hypocrite. And they know that I am a huge risk factor for them every single time they see me. But they love me, so they do. That fear must be painful. I wish they would believe a lie to just to make all that go away, but I know that doesn’t work, because it doesn’t work on me when they do it.
I wonder what the fuck is going to happen to me when I get old. My Grandmother was like that. What happens when your memory fades and you can’t remember what you were were hiding from, and what you were hiding from yourself. Was it a real fear, or something you just made up? Either way it is so scary finding out – either you find out that it was real, and now you have regrets, or that it never was, and now there are so many more regrets.