William Hickson’s famous quote “if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again” is one of the most ridiculous pieces of advice I have ever had the displeasure of hearing. This quote is the basis of all “positive thinking” and “motivational” powerpoints and promotional videos created by business people who use Walmart brand cameras, and run on two hours of sleep, along with three cups of lukewarm, sugar-free coffee. It has been used so frequently and often that it’s worth is practically nonexistent.
Countless times I have failed, and countless times I have “tried, tried again” with you. I set high expectations assuming you’ll accomplish them. This repetitious action has gotten me absolutely nowhere. Each time I end up in the same godforsaken position and instead of motivation to try again, I just feel melancholic. And in time the melancholic feeling turns to pure apathy and I just feel tired.
It’s become a vicious cycle that only leads to disaster.
The best part about my grandpa sounding just like Elvis and Johnny Cash, is that he’s 100% Irish.
When I was little, my grandpa would pull out his guitar and play songs for me. Mesmerized by his voice and the sound of his old guitar, I would sit for hours and listen. I didn’t listen to the words, though. I didn’t know what a “Hound Dog” was, and where was “Folsom Prison” located? Didn’t I need more than love? When I was small these songs were nothing but letters on a page and notes on a string.
As I grew older, my grandparent’s music embarrassed me. It wasn’t “cool” to listen to this, I wanted Radio Disney on! Who would want to sing in the rain, and why did my grandma insist on singing along?
And now looking back on it, I miss all of it. I miss my grandpa working the strings in his favor, making the music sound soft and wonderful. When I began to look up Elvis, Johnny Cash, The Beatles, all the artists who first influenced my taste in music, it was like sitting in the front room and listening to my grandpa again. I knew all the words to every song and could listen to them for hours without getting bored. Hell, I still do. I remember calling my grandpa when I learned how to play “Hound Dog” on his guitar and he was so excited. Then I dropped playing the guitar and haven’t reconsidered it ever again. I wish he was here to teach me. I wish they would move. I wish I could listen to him sing again, and I wish I had the carefree sense of a five year old again. I wish I could go back and sit on that god awful green carpet and just relive it.
This isn’t what I wanted. Not at all. But it makes you happy.
So I am happy.
There’s a small part of me that wants to be right.
Even though I know I’m horribly wrong.
I need friends.
You’re a fucking ugly bitch, I wanna stab you to death, and then play around with your blood.
Sometimes it’s not even worth asking you.
He loves you, and he loves you so goddamn much.
I knew the feelings he had for me were just temporary.
I hope she forgets your birthday, I hope she could care less about your anniversary, I hope she lets the red roses die, and I hope when she says she loves you, she’s lying.