You know I woke up with a belated Super Bowl hangover, but not from drinking. I ate a little too much, but overall I was still reeling from the ease with which the Tampa Bay Buccaneers dismantled the budding Kansas City dynasty. I’m glad I did not bet the game as I would have lost.
So I awake with some cobwebs in my head and the marine layer fog is creeping in. Now miraculously, after my coffee and a bowl of 25% THC something or other, I am Albert Einstein, genius, and expert on everything.
I was talking to Karen the other day and we were watching some rom-com movie that she is addicted to. In it, a man and his wife are talking about what they would do if either died prematurely. The politically correct thing to say would probably be something like “I wouldn’t want you to be alone, so I would be OK if you remarried.” But after I thought about it, I’m NOT OK with it. Nowhere close.
I was the first in my family to only marry once and stay married. Evidently, the “book” on the Diaz men was that “they are the best fathers, but the worst husbands.” I honestly thought never in a million years would I ever get married. Not in my DNA, I thought. But it was truly one of those corny love-at-first-sight things, so I really had no choice in the matter.
Now I’m thinking, why does she have to remarry someone? I don’t know why, but I feel it would somehow lessen our union. I would feel better (I think) if she just lived with someone. I understand the need for companionship, and I would never want my girl to feel lonely. But getting married (to me) means forever in this plane of existence and beyond. I know that my wedding band will stay on my finger until they hand it to Karen before I am cremated. My love for her will go on forever and I will remain forever married (and linked) to her.
I will not break my vows even for a hot ghost.
This is pretty deep emotional stuff for a dumbass that once rear-ended a police car on New Year’s Eve. Oh, I was drunk too. Not my proudest moment, but the tapestry would be incomplete if I did not mention it. As I do every time I relay a colorful story of this nature, I temper the remarks with, no matter how you look at it, driving when you are fucked up is not funny; more than wrong, it is ignorant.
There was this girl who used to come over to my condo in North Las Vegas.
To hug me.
From the brief conversations we had, she was not doing well in her current living situation. She was a sweet girl, about 20 years-old or so. I suspected abuse, but she never opened up about it. Anyway, at some point she would reach for me and instinctively I hugged her as she appeared to be in pain. Now I had no attraction to this girl, other than I guess her frailty and vulnerability. Certainly, nothing sexual. Not my type at all.
So we would hug, sometimes up to a full hour. No words, just human contact, and reassurance.
We always promised to meet up again, but eventually, she stopped dropping by. I never even knew where she lived; I think her name was Chandra.
I really hope she had a good life.