The unfortunate little beast upstairs howls almost constantly now. Blind, deaf and thanks to its incontinence, now has to be housed in an infant’s playpen. It’s stubborn owner selfishly refuses to have put it out of it’s misery, choosing instead to live with it’s cries, like some sick canine version of Johnny Got His Gun.
This situation brings to mind something a much too honest friend of mine told me after the dissolution of a recent relationship, “You’ve never been able to finish anything and you can’t ever accept when something’s not working. That’s a bad combination.” (much like being impatient and slow moving....). She was right.
The whole relationship had turned into a really bad scene. He was my friend. She was my lover. I overestimated his friendship, and underestimated hers. They ended up together. His betrayal hurt more. My much too honest friend saw it coming. All of my friends did, actually.
The prickly emotional minefield that Memory Lane has become seems like some masochistic game of hopscotch that I can’t stop playing.
The dog upstairs refuses to die, like the memories, and the kick in the gut that accompanies them. They’re the kind of good memories that were over long before they were finished, like a great television series that has gone on 2 or 3 seasons too long. In the end you just wish that you had gotten out before the ending tainted the good times.
This minefield is over two years old now, even overgrown by other minefields in some places, but I’m still stepping on those memories and they still go off with brutal and terrible efficiency.
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