Almost went to that island-you know-the one from that time-you know. It was your 21st birthday. Both of us knew what a meaningful birthday our peers deemed it to be.
You were understandably excited about earning the aged ability of entering any adult venue and sipping any alcoholic beverage you wanted.
Everyone should be stoked to gain another freedom.
It is also the last real birthday to signify any positively deemed change that happens in an individuals life.
Renting a car at 25 isn’t THAT exciting, especially when, for a fee (which isn’t really that expensive-unless like an underage me, you smoke the car out in Denver to a point where they were wondering if you were sober enough to even drop the damn thing off) you can rent them at 21, too.
It’s all downhill from there, the way I see it.
After that, you’re an adult, no longer forgiven for “college mistakes” of young adulthood.
The bitter generation before us should be more accepting to our situations, given they’re the ones that built the structure we live in now that has truly fucked all of our futures. Not intentionally, and a good deal of them understand that now. I hope someday that you understand the way our elders have. That you understand me like you’ve never been willing to try to. Older really is one thing: wiser.
A mix of that and being fully aware that I’d entirely fallen in love with you made it clear that for such a milestone of a birthday for you, and our first real one together, I had to go all out.
Wasn’t sure how you’d take it.
So much heavy, overly cliche’ and cheesy romance at once.
Especially since you’d never had a real “romantic” relationship prior to ours. But dammit if you didn’t deserve it at the time.
My heart couldn’t not make it a big deal, you were the biggest deal within it.
There’s always some opportunity to show that kind of stuff, and your 21st birthday was the perfect one.
Spent not only hours on hours (more than 30 if you’re counting) on a meaningful painting that embodied you and signified our bond, but I also wanted you to experience something that no one had ever done for you before, and hopefully will never do for you again-though knowing how cold hearted and vengeful you’ve become in the aftermath, this is probably something you and your new partner relive weekly-but still, I hope not.
That was special.
That was only with you.
No other women is gonna get a pop-up candle-lit dinner at Harriet Island on the Mississippi river under a friggin band-shell.
Most people do that for weddings.
I went all out with you, all of the time. Would’ve done anything to make it work with you-and that’s why I can’t go back to that fucking island.
I’m trying NOT to kill myself.
I’m not really sure most days.
I don’t want really want to.
But these ginormous, looming thoughts of you storm harder than it ever could from the actual sky and here, your skies are just all sunny and full of rainbows and it’s a clear, non-cloudy day, perfect for a fucking parade, everyday-you made damn sure I can’t rain on it.
It’s storming inside me.
I’m probably drowning.
Can you crack a window?
Let me up for air?
It’s okay, I guess.
Suffocating has become so commonplace that every-time I get a gulp of real oxygen it sends some shock of clarity through me.
I hate that.
Reminded swiftly with that breath that I fucking hate the world and would rather suffocate and drown in the storm.
Only some days, though.
And that’s why I can’t go back to that fucking island.