Forgetfulness Insults My Intelligence

The ghost of Christmas past has gotten a lot more dramatic with time. (Photo credit: Quinn Dombrowski)

I remember.
Ten years ago,
You were interested.
You convinced our friends
to leave us
alone.

Idiots.

I wasn’t interested.
You didn’t talk to me
for a year
until they talked some sense into you.
Or cheer.
Or maybe a bribe.
Or tequila.

The good old days.

And now,
we meet.
You and yours.
A friend and his.
Me,
and your best friend.

She’s interested.
You know I’m not.
You’re setting us up.

Those who forget their history
are doomed to inflict it on others.

Your ego was
tolerated
until then
because I remember the old you.

You lost that memory
underneath the TV shows,
movies,
fast food adoration
and the willingness to
falsify your own memoir.

I’m not so willing
to jump
into razor blades
covered
with french fries
and chocolate pudding
because you
want to dance
without guilt.

Innocence is knowing that it’s the other person’s fault.
Thank you for freeing me.

Bumblepuppies