There are two things about me that I can’t stand.
Number one: my obsessive nature. I swear, I can obsess over just about anything. Be it boys I find sexy, making sure a single dish is absolutely clean, even degrading my very existence. I’m not sure how or even why I’m as compulsive as I am, although both my parents seem otherwise obsessive in nature so maybe I inherited it from them.
If I was merely obsessive, I’d have no problem with it, really. Sometimes I find it charming and cute as hell. But obsessing leads me to think….too much. I ponder too long and too hard on any single thought, running it to a pulp, until by chance I catch a glimpse of myself and think “Bitch, shut up!”
That’s where number two comes in: I always feel this need to share those thoughts. Great, you might think, sharing your thoughts with others is a key factor in fulfillment. Only that’s not the case with me.
The response I receive almost all the time is the one I give myself in stage 1: Bitch, shut up! And if it isn’t so blunt as “Bitch, shut up” then it’s more often than not blatant disregard to anything I’ve said. Seriously, they brush it off with maybe an LOL or a shrug cluing me in that they are not as interested as I hoped.
That’s my problem: I always ‘HOPE’ for someone to give a shit. But conversely I always EXPECT no shits will be given.
That’s why it bugs me so much: I know in my mind prior to opening my goddam mouth that whoever I’m about to tell will more likely than not ignore me & make me feel even shittier than before and force me to resort to annoyance number one. But, there I go spilling my guts.
There’s something called ‘hope’ and I’m under firm belief that I’ve got an unhealthy dose of it ingrained in me. With everything, I hope for some miracle, and often my dreams fail to match my realities. I’m doing number one right now & I know the minute I get home number two will follow suit.

Did I lie? OK, maybe I am a brat but if you’ll be mine, I promise I won’t be such a brat!

“Bratty B”

We can’t find a parking spot. Not near the beach. Not anywhere. In this city. Probably this fucking state at this rate.

It’s insane. She’s insane. I’m going insane.

And Beverly Shore is definitely to blame. Beverly Shore and their bullshit parking permits.

Because there isn’t parking anywhere. And we keep driving. Up and down the strip. And anytime we find an open spot. There’s a sign saying permit only. Or no parking here.

Car will be towed.

Even though there’s plenty of room. And we see people and their dogs on the beach. The kind of people and dogs we want to be.

And she’s freaking out. So when we see a sign for 15 minute parking. I actually suggest she parks there. Things are getting that crazy. The car is that small.  I’m that hungover.

And we would walk. A mile. Probably five miles if we had to do it. And I would walk five hundred miles. And I would walk five hundred more. Just to be the man who walked one thousand miles to get out of this car.  But there’s nothing. No parking anywhere. And everything from this week. And the previous weeks. The previous months of her time in Chicago is coming to a head.

And I’m in the path of her fury. Stupidly trying to suggest logical things. From the passenger seat. Where advice is never wanted.

She just wants to drive the two hours back to Chicago. No beach. Because there’s no fucking parking and so fuck it.  And who wanted to come to the beach anyway. It was a dumb thing to be doing. And it was going to start raining soon anyway.  And so it’s a legitimate psychedelic psychobilly freakout that I have on my hands. And I’m helpless. And I’m ready to leave too. Because then it would be miserable silent driving.

Something that seems strangely comforting to me just now.

But mother is worried. And maybe it’s me that’s worried. And she needs to fucking relax and be happy.  So I convince her to drive around one last time. And we find this magical hidden parking lot. No fucking permit parking signs in sight. And there are cars pulling out. Two cars.

And we are third in line. One of those weekends.

But I convince her to wait. And the dog is swimming in Lake Michigan. And an old man feeds seagulls. We sit on a blanket on the beach. Framed by smokestacks from factories on the water on both sides.  And I read my novel. And she bakes underneath the sun while the dog barks.

And we are finally the kind of people and dogs that we want to be. Out of the windy city.

Exiles in Indiana.