Monday, December 28, 2015

The kid is applying to college

My kid is working on her college applications. This is what I hear:
What do you think of this?
Don’t sit too far away. Sit right here.
Give me space. Just let me write.
Read this right now - I need feedback.
I’m hungry.
Not now; I can feed myself.
Read this right now. What do you think of this?
Be quiet, I am trying to work.
Where are you going? Sit right here.

I open a little piece of chocolate wrapped in foil and even it offers a platitude for my improvement.
Are we supposed to be gathering points for pretending to continuously improve ourselves?
I only want the chocolate, no redemption.
When I was a waitress for a time, I had a rule: always be visibly bleeding.
A split lip, a bitten finger. Something to get me fired. It never worked.

When I worked with race horses, I was always bleeding. Pinched skin, busted toes, horses rearing up and pulling me with them, frozen bucket handles leaving my fingers raw. 
I loved those damn horses.

Seventeen years I’ve been wrangling and feeding this beast, bleeding.
Be quiet, I am trying to work.
Sit right here.
I’m hungry; not now.
Give me space; just let me write.
Sit right here.

Where are you going?



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