So. I’m up at 3:15 am, again, and it seems to be a new habitual. Before today, this time of awakening was for me, as said in Spanish, “Tiempo de perros.” Most times when I’m up too early it is dog related. And for those of you wondering why I speak so often of my hounds I say, “You, sir, need to pay attention.”
This morning, however, it wasn’t the dogs who awakened me, it was my own fevered brain. True enough, the Squirt was doing her adorable snurffle-snuffle snore dealio, a complex cacophony of puppy sleeping noises that puts a smile on my face and a lump of love in my heart. But it wasn’t that or Yoda’s constantly severe halitosis that awakened me today. It was my own spinning brain waves that kept me wide awake.
My issue, according to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, is that I have a guilty conscience about something, with said whateverthefuck something remaining a mystery to me. The often insightful psycho therapist and former Mrs. Mooner Johnson seems to believe that my early risings are all connected to something about which I feel either embarrassment, or guilt. Because I feel guilty, ipso facto, I can’t sleep.
“It is proven medical science, Mr. Loony Bird. Most insomnia is either anxiety or guilt driven, and in your case, my money lays nine-to-two it’s guilt. You need to spend some time in self-reflection, Mooner. There has to be something you’ve done that’s laying heavily on your crazy mind—you obviously feel embarrassment or guilt over something. Lord knows you’re always doing something that embarrasses me.”
When my psycho therapist say shit like this I start to wonder which of us is the nutty one. “Have you lost your mind, Sammy? It’s gotta be five-to-two, worst case. I haven’t been embarrassed since back to junior high school when I slow danced with an actual girl not Gram or Sister the first time. Accidently dry-rubbed against the silk and taffeta prom gown of who’s her name, and received both pleasure and a slap. She had one of those corsage dealios that girls used to wear on their wrist and I can still see how the air caused the baby’s breath to blow off her wrist as her flat hand headed for my cheek.”
Enjoyed the thrills too much to be embarrassed in the moment even with the slap, but paid the price next day in Sunday school. Offended young lady had to tell Mrs. Browningwell the story with added allegations. True, I did get a boner, and true as well that I left it pinned to her front halfway between her belly button and soft, budding breasts. But I wasn’t moaning. I was counting my one-two-three-fours under my breath so’s not to step on her tootsies. That was the only way I ever danced through an entire song without tripping over everyone’s feet.”
Who’s her name was far shorter than was I, and I was humming my numbered steps with my mouth closed. In reflections, might have sounded like moaning to her virgin ear plastered to my chest, spray-fluffed hair in my face. Oh, and I just remembered that she wore Taboo perfume except wasn’t it spelled “Tabu”? God, rememberating the sights and smells of young first encounters is exhilarating. Remember the first time you sniffed a lover’s sex smells? Intoxicating.
For those of you questioning my grammatical choices, I purposely used “who’s her name” rather than “what’s her name”, and speaking of dry rubbed, my Gram called me last night to complain about her sex life. OK, she actually called to see if I’d come visit and, as she put it when she told me, she said, “Git yer fuckin’ pig ta stay tha shit out tha garden.” But as always, my Gram’s conversations will hit sex talk at about the ninety-second mark, as in this conversation when she ran out of steam complaining about Rush Limbaugh the pig eating all her squash.
“… fuckin’ Rushie Limberhog ate summer squashies an’ tha Zukkies too. So, there’s this Texas student working down ta tha church—nuclur engineerin’ or sum such a major, an’ doin’ tha Lord’s work with tha kids fer Pastor Browningwell—an’ he says ta me, ‘Mz. Johnson, that’s a mighty nice car you drive.’ An’ afore I can git tha door open to hop him on in, fuckin’ Leticia grabs tha boy’s arm damn near out tha socket. Yanked tha poor kid hard enough ta snap his head off, what with him eyeballin’ the Fee-rarie an’ all.”
And that’s twice now that Mrs. Leticia Browningwell has bothered into a Johnson’s sexual activities in four paragraphs of this word swill. Maybe I can’t sleep because that old bag had so much influence on my life. She’d have boiled me in oil had we lived back in the days of such, and then fed me to the pigs. Told me just that this one time. Maybe that’s likewise why I own 400-plus pounds of piggy meat on the hoof.
Folks ask me why I’m an atheist and moments with Leticia come to mind. In my world, no actual God would allow her to influence so many young lives. Then, and again, no God as a deity exists in my world excepting for my own, quite personal God, a creature of my own divining.
I often wish for a Divine all-knowing, all-being God, as that would make it easier to live life. Using a third party with a God’s power can justify any action one might choose to make, as abdication of our bad deeds to the edicts of a cult grants a pardon to some. No guilty consciences when you can confess your sins to your God for absolutions.
“Dear God. I’m so sorry for being a greedy and bigoted racist lying fuckhead, and if You make me President I promise I’ll be better. Ah, er, well ah, might You also consider making this current bankruptcy go away? Amen. Oh, and the lawsuits.”
Fuck Walmart and Donald J. Trump as well.