i used to collect resentments like loose change in my front, right, pants pocket.
i’d never tell a soul either, especially the object of my discontent.
nope, i’d just accumulate them—little secret silent scars.
it’s what i did, very well!
yeah, in my front, right pocket.
and what a great place to store them.
i could wash my pants a thousand times, and they’d still be right there for me to pluck out and commiserate with whenever i was feeling taken for granted or put upon.
that is, until i met keaton.
i inadvertently did a wise thing.
i warned her about this little fetish.
and then she advertently did a wiser thing.
i don’t know when or how, but she cut tiny holes in all my front, right, pants pockets.
you know, small enough for resentments to fall through, but not change or chapsticks.
i can’t even find the holes, but i know they’re there somewhere, because now when i reach in to grab one or two, they’re gone, leaving me empty handed in the bad energy department.
and you know what?
it’s refreshing really.
my only regret is that i wish i had figured this out sooner rather than later.
hmm ... regrets.
now maybe that's something i could collect?
i'd have a basement full in no time flat, that's for sure.