Guest Blogger
In the post-holiday celestial explosion, it’s in stark contrast to my now. My Foxy now that is sparkling and glittery and has me dizzy with delight. And. Hold on. What is this feeling. Oh. Hello Happy. I see you there, peeking through the *Lust +. So you’re the one that’s been putting stars in my eyes and leaving trails of smiley faces and little hearts behind me every time I move. It’s so good to see you. It’s been a while. I almost didn’t recognize you. Thanks for stopping by.
I’m so busy. With Happy. That I almost don’t see.
The collection notice. In my mailbox. Addressed to the man who was broken-beyond-repair that was my father-in-law. Who didn’t used to be that way. But got that way.
Have you ever used a seam ripper.
Rip.
Alcohol.
Rip.
Cars in ditches. Rehab.
Rip.
Relapse. Overflowing bathtubs. Fender benders.
Rip.
Rehab.
Riiiip. Riiiip.
Who put an option on the table for the fate of the musician that was my husband.
Ugh. This notice. Is cramping. My style.
In a nanosecond, it sucks me back with an undertow of a thousand complaints. The sparkles and the glitter are replaced.
Rotten. Dark spots.
The stench. Of blame. Of shame. That was his. That he couldn’t overcome. Until one day. The last day.
Fucking. Asshole.
He robbed the musician that was my husband. He robbed the pre-teen. He robbed me. He robbed. The future.
Selfish. Prick.
After all these years the man who was broken-beyond-repair that was my father-in-law is still collecting. He collected the musician that was my husband.
And. Stuck me with the bill.
R.I.P.
*Lust Plus isn’t just any old lust. It’s lust plus a giant serving of PTSD.
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