Not that you care what I think of you, but dude. You suck.
You might think that, after 3 years of tangling with you head-on, engaging in a little hand-to-hand, that I’d be a little more sanguine about the whole thing. About your general terrible-ness.
But it’s funny: just when I get used to your ugly mug, get to a point where I don’t turn to bloody stone every time I meet your eye–that’s when you get a good lick in edgewise, bash me over the head and fall back into the shadows, cackling.
You’re like a summer thunderstorm that never breaks, until you do: hovering, threatening, promising a downpour. And I’m at a point now where, most of the time, I can accept your presence. Like air and gravity: a natural force I can’t erase or negate, and so I just go with it.
And it’s not like the stupid little rain cloud in the drug commercials on TV: I don’t drag you along behind me everywhere I go. You’re not my personal hellhound, either: invisible, snarling, in desperate need of a snack.
No, I can see you just fine, you bastard. That’s the good thing about naming you, about knowing you: you don’t have the power of surprise anymore.
Now I can see you, feel you creeping in like a pissed-off fog, see your gory grin lit up in my rearview mirror.
There are times when I’m better able to fight you off, I guess. And this hasn’t been one of them, of late.
So, ok. Enough. You’ve had your fun, for now. Take a little trip back to the horizon and leave me alone for a while.
Let’s go back to detente. Give these bite marks a chance to heal, this time.