Three years ago today I found that Thing which no man wants to find but many do and I was quite surprised that I was a man just because I had a penis two days ago I knew I wouldn't dare shoot the moon from its place in the sky because I was still in love with her and I knew a lot of things back then but I'm a hardened man now things are different, they really are, oh, please come back I'm so sorry I ever said such a thing and laughing!
She's laughing again.
Anxiety is a very interesting thing; especially in my circle. We all deal with anxiety, in my circle, it's a big part of our lives and probably the similar ailment that holds us together as a group. The ways we deal with it are often immature and unsettling, but none so much as Rose, who laughs. When things get bad for Rose, she just starts laughing, but in no metaphorical sense. She tells no jokes, she does not make light of anything, and sometimes she doesn't even smile- she just laughs. It's a paralyzing, full-bodied laugh, like when your father tickled you until you couldn't even breathe, or tell him to stop. She just slumps over, heaving and guffawing, her petite frame trembling with unknowable humor. She screams and kicks; giggling like just the motions of happiness could defuse the situation. Rose can't look at you, when she's laughing. She can't talk to you, or feel you, or hear a word of comfort you're trying to say as intermission ends and it's almost time for her scene. She can't hear you because "Jack's turned into a duck," or she's "just realized how funny our inside jokes aren't," or because my hands are big, purple-stained sheets of pomegranate-paper with ink that couldn't ever hold her the right way and that's an intolerable thought so you won't go away because you just want to deny it forever and that just makes it more true in your shadow looming over you weaving those horns on your head JESUS SHIT FUCKING GO TO HELL WHY WON'T YOU JUST GO TO HELL YOU PIECE OF SHIT GODDAMN NIGGER.
But I could never be angry with Rose. You couldn't either, if you knew her. So we'll both sit here, you and I, and listen to her laugh for a bit. It'll be over soon, all we have to do is stay right here, and not say a word or even look at her. And maybe something will come of it; maybe you'll hear something in the laughter, or find the gnome hiding in my hair. Maybe it'll make a nice poem, or maybe we'll just chew wax.
True story.
She's laughing again.
Anxiety is a very interesting thing; especially in my circle. We all deal with anxiety, in my circle, it's a big part of our lives and probably the similar ailment that holds us together as a group. The ways we deal with it are often immature and unsettling, but none so much as Rose, who laughs. When things get bad for Rose, she just starts laughing, but in no metaphorical sense. She tells no jokes, she does not make light of anything, and sometimes she doesn't even smile- she just laughs. It's a paralyzing, full-bodied laugh, like when your father tickled you until you couldn't even breathe, or tell him to stop. She just slumps over, heaving and guffawing, her petite frame trembling with unknowable humor. She screams and kicks; giggling like just the motions of happiness could defuse the situation. Rose can't look at you, when she's laughing. She can't talk to you, or feel you, or hear a word of comfort you're trying to say as intermission ends and it's almost time for her scene. She can't hear you because "Jack's turned into a duck," or she's "just realized how funny our inside jokes aren't," or because my hands are big, purple-stained sheets of pomegranate-paper with ink that couldn't ever hold her the right way and that's an intolerable thought so you won't go away because you just want to deny it forever and that just makes it more true in your shadow looming over you weaving those horns on your head JESUS SHIT FUCKING GO TO HELL WHY WON'T YOU JUST GO TO HELL YOU PIECE OF SHIT GODDAMN NIGGER.
But I could never be angry with Rose. You couldn't either, if you knew her. So we'll both sit here, you and I, and listen to her laugh for a bit. It'll be over soon, all we have to do is stay right here, and not say a word or even look at her. And maybe something will come of it; maybe you'll hear something in the laughter, or find the gnome hiding in my hair. Maybe it'll make a nice poem, or maybe we'll just chew wax.
True story.
