Week after week, I see the nurse at my job, she is young, attractive, and desperate to be married.  She has her boyfriend of four years or so, who she is constantly henpecking to get engaged.  Now, once upon a time, marriage seemed a nightmare to me, not so anymore, but it did.  I see her, and I realize, this guy is never going to marry her, and if he does, he is going to be one miserable fuck.  Why?

Because when you do things under an ultimatum, you fucking chafe.

I don’t care who you are, no one likes to feel like they HAVE to do something, especially something like that.  I tried telling her, but she is dead set on her ideas, and its going to be hell for both of them eventually, I wonder why anyone would put themselves in that position.  See, I can relate very well to chafing, I wanted to do all the things I did, but at the same time, I was made to feel like I HAD to do all of that.  A healthy mind state that does not equal.

Boone was right, I was in a kids relationship that had adult problems.  I heard it and knew it to be truth.  Who said that you have to be mature when you become a parent?  Or when you get married?  Apparently that is not the case, and growing up is a bitch.  I never felt grown up, I always felt like a kid, and I still do.  There is something very different now though, something that feels more solid, and steady in me.  I can ignore things, distractions, I can focus much more, its now a matter of what to focus on.

How do you like that, you think you know who you are, what you are all about, and then life goes ahead and fucking smacks you in the face and screams in your ear.  It hasn’t been that long I suppose, not at all, wounds take so long to heal sometimes, before you can move the way you used to.  And there lies the irony, because as we all know, it is irony that makes a story poignant.  I have no desire to move how I used to.  Only on a dance floor perhaps.  I feel as normal as I have ever felt in my entire life, not to say that I do not have my moments, but overall, well, its just fucking brilliant.

Maybe a short parable is in order.


A young wandering monk traveled across mongolia, searching for a wise man who was known as, “Master Mistake”.  It was said that this master had made every mistake a human being could make, therefore making him a veritable expert on almost any matter involving human interaction.  The monk traveled for weeks, walking through scalding deserts, and treacherous terrain, finally reaching the base of a small cliffside temple cut into the rock somewhere outside the Gobi.

The monk had met a young woman from a nearby village, and he was desperate to know what he had to do in order to avoid saying or doing the wrong thing, thereby driving her away from him.  He found the wizened old master laying on the floor of the temple, arms splayed out, breathing shallow breaths.  The young monk rushed to his side, certain the old master was at deaths door.  He asked him what had happened.  The old man said nothing, and only looked at him briefly before returning his unblinking stare towards a bucket that lay next to the dusty altar covered in half melted candles.

The monk was even more desperate than before, and quickly told the master his story, explaining that he was in love, and he feared mistakes he might make.  The old master nodded slowly, and pointed to the bucket.  The monk was confused, and he felt foolish, thinking himself lacking for not understanding what was maybe a great and deep lesson.  The master looked at the monk and explained softly that he had mopped the floor, and fell on the wet ground earlier.  The young monk was confused again, wondering why he even bothered pointing to the bucket at all, why had he not just explained that before?

He asked again about the girl in the village, he explained again how he wished to avoid the typical mistakes a youth in love would make.  The old master looked at him again, and pointed at the bucket.  The young monk was growing frustrated now, and he finally asked what that had to do with his problem.  The master laughed softly to himself and spoke.

“You are the bucket.”

The monk thought about this for a moment, again trying to extract meaning, and again, finding none.  The master continued.

“Fill you up full of mistakes, and one day you still might spill out and break your ass on them.”

The master took his last breath, and the monk wrapped the body and buried him.  He sat and meditated for days following the old masters death.  On the fourth day, he arose, having made his choice.  He would stay there.

As he would later tell another young monk coming to seek wisdom,

“Empty buckets do not spill.”