So like anyone with money troubles I cursed the loss of 4 dollars and kept walking. 20 minutes later, I started to cry. Over my spilled ice cream. Not because of the ice cream itself (I hope, though it’s possible I really wanted that ice cream) but because it seemed like a perfect metaphor for my life, and I suddenly saw myself in a boxy t-shirt with stumpy little legs, like a character in a Peanuts cartoon. Why so glum, Charlie Brown? Is it because you’ve never kicked the football, never gotten a homerun, never won over the little red-haired girl? Is it because the other kids don’t invite you to parties, or use your bald head as a model for the design of their jack o’ lantern? We always go back to square one, Charlie Brown. The difference is that you keep trying, managing to summon as much hope in the 20th attempt at you did in the 1rst. But I’m starting to keep track. Keep track of the slights and the insults and how many times that bitch Lucy has pulled that football away. I’m not supposed to do that. The lovely people in my life who tell me things will get better–their arguments don’t work if I keep track, if I say “no, look, here is the evidence. I always end up back here.”
The broken chemicals in my body are the mean children, the griefs I carry are those parents who gave you rocks when you went trick or treating. I would have sat down and cried right there in the grass.
“Can’t you do anything right, Charlie Brown?”
I don’t know.