Change is Good For the Soul

Ah, I don't mean that. Normally, I like being in a rut. But things are unsettled. That is not good. Therefore, I will make a modest proposal.
So, for this moment, here is serious and introspective Mike. You may not like me this way, but it's only one post. What's fun about that? Well, if I'm being moody and thoughtful, then someone else has to be goofy - just for the once. They can trade off. You other three, snarky, dark & moody, hopeless romantic - you take one post off, too and be someone else's version of you. The intellectual, the paranoid, the driven woman, the renagade artiste, anyone I've forgotten - you can play, too, but only if you want.
So, here goes.

I was thinking of two very different women tonight, two women that people have reminded me of recently.

The ex: It's all fun at KD's expense here, but remember, there's two sides to every story. The film (and book) High Fidelity cut really close to me for two reasons:
First, there was the quote from the main character: "I guess it made more sense to commit to nothing, keep my options open. And that's suicide. By tiny, tiny increments."
Secondly, there was a bit where he said something to the effect of this: Take the five worst things you've ever done and write them down. No explanations, no justifications. Now who's the asshole?
But the rest of that sad, sordid tale will have to wait.

Now, here's a little holiday story, courtesy of my Mom. Right about now, two weeks or so before Christmas, in my sophmore year of high school, I get home from school. Right away, I know there's trouble coming. She's in that mood. I don't even need to see the bottles. I'm late, so she has her excuse. She starts with the yelling, getting too close, with the fumes rolling off her, her breath so thick with it, it stings. She's backing me into the corner, like always. And I snap. I lean forward, and shout so loud she winces, "F**k you! Why do you do this, you crazy bitch?"
Now remember, nice Irish Catholic boys don't drop the f-bomb on their mothers. She looks like I've slapped her, and she raises her hand to me. Again. To her, this is just a minor setback. But this is different, because this time I'm not taking it. I swing at her - right past her, and put a nice dent in the wall right next to her head.
She narrows her eyes, and I swear she lets out a little growl. But for all that, she's not sure what to do. Dad's not home to defend her. I'm bigger than her, and for the first time, she really sees that. Finally she hisses, "Get out."
She doesn't need to say it twice. I fly out the door and hitch to Jersey, where I stay with my aunt and uncle for a few weeks. After Christmas, we pretend nothing happened, like we always do, and I go back home again. Joyeux frickin' noel.
There is a bright side. I didn't do my homework well into February. The teachers'd ask, and I'd say, "My Ma threw me out, and my books are in the house." She had, after all, thrown me out, and the books were in the house. The two were true, they just weren't actually simultaneous. However, I didn't feel the need to correct the assumptions that people made when they heard 'em together.


And done. Back to funny. It's nice and safe, thanks very much.