Well all, it’s Peter, and my curse has returned. The curse of knowing who I am, and where I came from, the lives I’ve ruined, and the pain I’ve endured in my own life. The whirlwind of emotional emotions all came back to me suddenly like a dilapidated windmill churning in a gentle breeze.
When I saw that woman, my mother, it triggered the return of my memories. Flashbacks of moments in my life flashed before my eyes like the flashing flashlight of fate. I saw a birthday party, some years ago, with my mother, who, despite a different hair style, looked suspiciously as old as she does now. Hmmm, that birthday party must have been last year. I do love birthday parties. I think.
Ah yes, now I remember. Last year’s birthday at Chuck E. Cheese. That’s where the memory came from. Mommy made me wear that crown. I hated it. I am nothing special. But I told her I wouldn’t do such a thing unless I could drink bat blood from my trusty skull chalice. She consented.
Speaking of skulls, I can now remember that death follows me everywhere. First Simone, then that Irish guy. And I’m pretty sure I blowed my brother up, too. What is this tendency to destroy the lives of those around me? I am like David Oreck, only less a salesman, and more like his product, the vacuum. Except a vacuum, that when it sucks emotions into it, it destroys them. Which I suppose is less a vacuum, and more a Peter. Thus my metaphor has come full circle. Such is Peter.
So now I’m teamed up with this weird British dude, or something. Which I suppose is Ok. Although, ultimately, all teamwork is futile. We’ll always end up alone, whether from a girl leaving you for being too emotional, or a junkie ex killing your woman, or blowing your brother up. It’ll happen. It’s as certain as an emo song being about love lost, or a Peter venting his pre-menstrual like emotions on his blog. Anyways, I thrive on solitude. Ultimately, I am ready for my undestructible partner to ultimately be destroyed by Peter, and ultimately to be left alone in solitude, and ultimately, be full of pain, ultimately. If anything in life was the metaphorical gas to the metaphorical automobile of Peter, it would be pain. Death. Solitude. I want a ham sandwich. Such is Peter.
