When Your Past Returns To Hunt You…

First, for those curious human Spell-Checkers, I MEANT to spell “hunt” in the title of this entry. Anyone who has gone back to the very first entry on this blog, and read each one sequentially, will have no doubt as to my occasional absence of sound body and mind. Granted, things are far better now than they ever were, but I’m still crazy, and that still drives me moreso. Last night is a prime example of my randomly off kilter mindset. Picture this: I am in the kitchen preparing dinner for my loving husband. Our beautiful daughter is in her crib being a baby and doing baby stuff. I had just pulled the Au Gratin Potatoes out of the oven, and opened the spice cabinet to search for evidence of a lost tribe of bacon bits, which–as per the usual disappointments–we were out of and will not be able to replace until our food stamps come in, anyway, when I opened the cabinet, there were none one the first shelf, so I looked at the second shelf, and it was there that I saw it–Popcorn Salt. There is nothing wrong with Popcorn Salt. In fact, I actually prefer to pop the popcorn from scooped kernels in a pan on the stove and add my own butter and Popcorn Salt to taste, but the Popcorn Salt disturbed me. Here’s why. Seeing the salt reminded me of a time when Robert had a girl coming over (before the marriage and the fidelity) and he had said she was bringing Popcorn and I wanted to know why she would bring some when there was some in the house and he said because what she was bringing was better and that’s why she needed to go to the store before coming over which would conveniently place her ETA after I had gone to work. Back then, I thought she was just his friend, later I found out otherwise, we fought, we made up, the corpulent, unprepossessing, atramentous, strumpet is gone forever. The point is, the popcorn reminded me of that long and forgotten evening, and the evening reminded me of the trollop and the trollop reminded me of all of the times when he didn’t always act his loving best, and I started to cry, standing right there, over the red-beans and rice. Of course, there was no reason for me to get all worked up over something in the past, but I did, and I knew I was wrong for it. I told myself to shut up. I told myself to get the fuck over it. I told myself all about letting dead dogs lie and all that jazz, but I wouldn’t listen to myself, and I knew there was only one way to remedy the situation. So, I marched my elephantine, achromatic, unalluring, but never-the-less allegiant self down the hall to where he’d been sitting at his computer playing World of Warcraft. Bending down, I kissed him quickly and deliberately on his lips, hugged him, and told him I loved him. He looked at me like I was mentally incompetent, in fact said as much, but told me he loved me too, and asked what had brought me storming down the hall at break-neck speed. I chose to pretend it was nothing at all, but I knew he knew otherwise, and of course will definitely know otherwise when and if he reads this, but the point is there is no good excuse for my past-dwelling. He loves me very much, we are a family now, and nothing is going to take that away from us, aside from my own demons. Why do I keep letting self-invented el chupacabras stalk me right out of Happy Town? Replacements–The plan was to set the world on its ear, and I’m willing to bet you don’t last a year. The plan was to set the world on fire, but it rains every day on the line in Happy Town .

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