what kind of labyrinth is this

that sends you laughing
without smiling

I got bit by a dog when I was a kid. A young kid, four, and I got my face ripped half off by a Pit Bull. It was pretty bad, I understand. I remember. I remember the dog. I remember its markings. I remember the yard, and the house, and the chain that was not quite strong enough. I remember the screaming (not mine) and the blood (mine). I remember the blaming and the apologizing, everything. I remember that for a long time my mother was worried that I would never look normal. And I still have scars, we've talked about them (you and I, not me and her). The squint. The smile. The scars that you cannot see unless you know what I looked like before.

I feel like I look all right. I do not give it a second thought. Sometimes I can feel the ones in my mouth if I run my tongue around. The ones around my eyes are much more pronounced when I am twenty pounds lighter. But it does not occur to me to wonder if I would have had a different face if my eyes were that much larger. Cause, really, what is the point of that?

And I love Pit Bulls. I have had Pit Bulls since. They are great dogs, fantastic animals. I love them and I would have a house full of them if I could. The best dog I have ever had, and I have had a lot of dogs, was a Pit Bull named Bochy. I fucking love that dog, wherever he is now I love him. And people that know about that thing with the other one, the first dog, especially people that remember as well as I do, they go How can you live with a Pit Bull? How can you let a Pit Bull in the house with you, with your children, when you know what they are capable of? And I go What the hell, man? Look at this dog, Bochy, tell me he is not the greatest dog you have ever met. And they look at him, sideways, and go Yeah but you know what he's capable of. It could happen at any second. No warning. And maybe this time you do not get so lucky. Maybe this time it is your neck instead of your face. Maybe this time is the time that you don't remember. And I will defend that fucking dog and that entire breed, because you cannot blame them all for the mistakes of one poorly trained animal. You can't. And you can't live like that, always wondering, always avoiding, cause really you don't know. Yeah it could happen. I could also get hit by a train while I am in the store, you don't know. But really, I do know, don't I? Cause it's happened before, so I can't say that I don't know. Except that I do not work that way. I am optimistic. I hope for the best. Thus I have Pit Bulls, because I love them and am not going to hold it against them simply because I have one horrible experience on my record.

But really? If that dog, that first one? If that dog's owner died, or if that dog ran away, or if that particular one, the one that ate my face and missed my jugular by thismuch, if that very same animal came to me reformed, would I feel the same way about him?

waiting far too long

for something I forgot was wrong


That tattoo. It will never go away. Ever. Once you make the decision and do it, you are stuck for the rest of your life. Together. Choose wisely. It is part of you. Take your time and be sure that it is not only what you want right now but that it is something that you are going to want in the future, something that can grow as you grow and stretch as you stretch and be pertinent and meaningful even if you undergo a complete personality overhaul. Or a mid life crisis. Maybe you will come to hate it. Maybe you will come to despise it as a reminder of the person you were or the life you lived that is either no longer available to you or is not something you want to associate yourself with. Maybe you will view it with disgust, wondering, every time you see it, how you could have been so stupid. Maybe you will wonder, years later, if your friends are making fun of you for being permanently yoked to such a bad decision. Maybe you will view it with contempt, blaming it for your poor career prospects and minimized clothing options. Maybe that tattoo will come to symbolize all your failures, personal, professional, everything, everything that is wrong with your universe pinned squarely on this thing that YOU chose, that you loved, that you felt such an unbreakable bond with that you had it permanently embedded in your skin. This tattoo.

Maybe you will want to get rid of it. You are not that person anymore, get it the fuck off you! But you do not want to do anything that drastic right now, because you do not have the time or the money. Anyway, even if you have it removed, there is going to be a scar. What to do. Start wearing long sleeves. Start sitting so that it is not exposed from that angle. Start frequenting lower-light establishments. Start small, little things, maybe you cannot get rid of the tattoo entirely but you can modify your behavior and patterns and whole fucking life to make that tattoo less than it was, to make it less noticeable, less important. You cannot get rid of it, entirely, ever. Removal. Scar. It will still be there, wtill be part of you. Probably the thing to do is to have it covered. If you can't get rid of it outright, you can replace it. Cover it. Find something that is more suited to who you are now and what you want at thissecondrightnow and slap it on that bitch. Cover it up, it is easier. Nevermind that you loved that tattoo. Nevermind that it is a testimony to a life lived and choices made and decisions weighed with utmost importance. Cover it up, move along, let it go. This thing. This tattoo. This wife.

The only person I ever loved with my whole, adult heart, the only person for whom I was completely open, completely available, and the only one who really knew me at all, turned my name on his arm into a plant. A plant. A fucking plant.

That is a bold, bold move. Making that decision. Separating me from him with needle and blood, it is that important. I would bleed myself onto this floor, one drop at a time, if only it meant getting her off of me once and for all. Cause if I have to see her name there every day, holy shit, give me an iron and I will take care of it myself, whatever it takes just get her off me. I am that distasteful. I am that disposable. I am that infuriating, he absolutely cannot live with me as a part of him, not for one second more. Not one second. And do you know how I know? Because I saw it. Yesterday.