Funny how things from the past never cease to haunt you. Despite the years, the miles, the astronomical shifts inbetween, people, places, knick-knacks, and memories won't leave us the hell alone. And their unexpected visit- much like that of a mother coming home too early from work to find you and your lover discovering the depths of sexual beauty- and yourselves- on the couch: it is unexpected, uncalled for, and completely unwanted.

I received a call from my first- and last- lover last night. After weeks and hours and minutes and seconds and eternities of avoiding me and ignoring me, she finally gave me a ring. She drudged up all the shit I left behind- within five minutes I was home again, acting in the same over-dramatic, plotless play of Bible Belt, Texas, that of which I had yearned so much to leave behind. Within five minutes, I heard arguments, excuses, and apologies. Within five minutes, I listened silently to reasons for over-reacting, under-reacting, and everything inbetween. Within five minutes, she heard a dial tone.

Why does the past feel the necessity to play the antagonist? Why can it not stay where it belongs, like the forgotten stage director, hiding in the shadows of a well-run theatrical event- unbeknownst to the audience, the machine would crumble if not for that brave, patient, leading role behind the curtain. The past is there to guide us as well, surely, and to act as lessons learned, and beautiful things cherished. It is not meant to leap from the side curtain in the middle of the second act and do a solo Irish jig across center stage. It ruins the show.

This is my show. This is my new home. And I will not have it destroyed so carelessly by a raging memory.

Wicky wicky, indeed.

Jello