Fuck This Fucking Rain

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." ~Carl Jung

*

“These things usually happen like that,” she told me.

“I know,” I replied, “Always when I'm not looking for it, when I least expect it, and when it's most inconvenient.”

“That's life.”

“No, that's just my life.”

“It happens to everyone,” she said.

“Yeah, but it happens to me all the fucking time. I must have been a really bad person in a past life. Either that or God just thinks it's fun to fuck with me.”

“God doesn't fuck with people.”

“Seriously? Then why does this shit happen to me? I was doing just fine, living my life, things were going well and he just throws a wrench in the works.”

“Just because you don't understand him, doesn't make God crazy. He knows what he's doing. He has a plan.”

“Oh yeah?” I said sarcastically, “Well, it be nice if he fucking shared that plan with me. That way we'd be on the same page.”

A long silence.

“Apparently you've got your mind made up, there's no talking to you right now.”

“I don't wanna fucking talk. There's nothing to talk about! I wanna ride my bike down the highway, in and out of traffic, as fast as it will take me. I wanna watch cars zip by me in a blur. I wanna just go until I'm so far away that nothing else matters.”

“You can't outrun your feelings, Jorge”

“I can fucking try!”

“No you can't, your bike's in the shop and it's raining.”

“Fuck you! And, fuck the fucking rain!,” I said, “I wanna break stuff, glass preferably. I like the way it sounds when it shatters.”

“Then go break something!”

“Fuck you! I don't have anything to break that I wouldn't regret breaking later when I had to clean it up. I need a drink!”

“No you don't.”

“Rum. No, champagne!”

“Yeah, ok Jorge. That'll help.”

“Do you think champagne would taste good mixed with rum?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why not? Everything tastes better with champagne.”

“Shut up, Jorge. You're not going to throw away a year's sobriety over this because I won't speak to you if you do.

“Yes you would, you love me.”

“I do love you, but you do this to yourself. It's always the same thing. Stop wearing your heart on your sleeve. Then you wouldn't get your feelings hurt.”

“I can't help it,” I replied, “Alcoholics are all emotionally sensitive. It's a scientifilogical fact. It says so right in the step book.”

“Scientifilogical?”

“Whatever," I sighed, "I'm going home.”

“Bye.”

I open the old wooden door and step out onto the porch. I look out across the yard to the farm in the distance. It's pouring rain.

“Fuck this fucking rain!”