Caterwauling

Someone said to me recently that the one thing they abhor more than anything is a liar.

I often wonder whether this person is dropping hints with me. But seeing as though I’ve never told a lie in my life (if anything, I am far too open about how I feel about things), I didn’t take it personally.

Now, there’s a twist. I have had a very sneaking suspicion for a very long time that said person was lying to me on several occasions. After all, people who detest some characteristic in others are usually the most-guilty of it themselves.

And at some point recently, I was handed my proof. On a silver platter with a mimosa and a vase containing a red rose and the bloody knife they found twisted in my back.

Liar liar ass on fire. No extinguisher holds enough liquid to keep said individual from being a danger to themselves and others.

(I really hate not being able to use pronouns. Yes I’m aware how stupid it all sounds.)

The only thing I hate worse than pronoun abuse is the fact that I can’t tell a soul. It reminds me of Blue Shirt, Black Pants. (I’m betting that particular entry when I mentioned said individual is still in draft mode, because it incriminates the guilty in my present-day life. Just bear with me on this one.) Basically I was the battered woman in the bathroom who emerged to smile and serve everyone tea like I wasn’t just terrorized.

I mean, I COULD tell a soul. And find a strong support group, probably. But it won’t get me anywhere. I’d rather just do my Mona Lisa smile if anyone should ask.

And they don’t.

I just now feel like I have confirmation of what I was praying wasn’t true. And I don’t know what exactly to do with that. Tell Virginia that Santa Claus rapes women he has chained in the basement of his toy factory? Or let the brat continue thinking those gifts fall out of the fucking sky and learn the hard way like I did when the gifts stop coming and the price tag to get future ones is too great for your battered soul to afford?

For the second night in a row, at my exit, there was a horrific crash.

Once again I could hear the impact, hear the tires as the car that was rear-ended spun out, and feel the smoke-and-gasoline smell filling my lungs.

I need to quit coming home at 8:30 at night, is all I’m saying.

God’s spared me twice, and probably a million more times over the course of my driving career. And I cannot thank Him enough for that.

But like I was telling Mom, my hour-and-a-half-ish time in the car each day is the best part of my day. Narrowly averted crashes and massive panic attacks and all. It would just be nice if the drive, the only thing that CAN go smoothly right now, actually would.