Our Safe Word is Panda

So little is forgivable these days. When I was 2x too stoned
on our picnic table I stopped writing for fear of divulging too
much, but that’s meta, and my editor at R******* hated my
meta, but that doesn’t matter anymore.
In other news, I’m Cancing*.
*cance [cans]
verb (invented)
1. to behave in a manner similar to the Cancer Zodiac,
characterized by dreaminess, moodiness, and intuitiveness
2. to engage in self-deprecation, self-destruction, or self-pity
In other words, I’m studying the universe. That’s why I bring
paper everywhere: I’m taking notes. I’m not from here. Or I’m
not for here. Regardless, here I am.
What if Jesus was a dyke? Why does nobody talk about being
cock-whipped? If placebo is powerful enough to use as a
control group, is imagination dangerous?
If mental illness is my superpower and brainwashing can be
positive (think: affirmations), what about forgiveness? Pixie
sticks? Dunkaroos. So much sugar! All that starch. No wonder
I was such a sick kid.
(I still am, but in different ways.)
I think our only hope is bringing love to the darkest places.
There’s so many nightmares to go through, and so many are
found in bed.
There’s always the possibility of an exception to a rule and
there’s always the possibility YOU are that exception. Statistics
do not speak. Data does not know. Only you can say, “Yes, this
works,” or, “No, this hurts.”
Only you can learn the difference.
In the tent, I said, “mosh pit full of angry pandas”, and you
understood, like when you stayed up with me all night, or most
of it, while I peeled my heart into strips called sentences.
I always asked, “What’s wrong with me?”
Turns out, nothing.
I’m just different.

The End