Three Words

When you tell someone to go fuck himself (or herself), it's serious. Unlike the rather benign and commonplace "fuck you," "go fuck yourself" is pretty definitive; it doesn't leave much room for discussion or reconciliation. Or interpretation.

Most of the time, folks will fall from the roster of my life long before anyone has to say those three words. But sometimes people choose to hang on a bit too long and torture each other, suck the life out of each other, draw some blood before they're ready to shut the door and lock it. Bad habits are hard to break.

The good news about a solid and mutually exchanged "go fuck yourself" is both of you are ready; the hatred and utter disdain have reached such a fever pitch that you actually feel relieved it's over, that there's nothing left to say.

And so it went this weekend, and so it was that I've achieved some sense of clarity, and a big dose of closure. Well, as much clarity and closure as one can achieve without ever really having had a satisfactory conversation. I guess sometimes it's best to rely upon expletives in lieu of explanations. Even the most relentless truth seeker reaches a point at which head banging leads to more bruising than it's worth. Some questions will never be answered, unless, of course, you consider an assertive "go fuck yourself" an answer. And, in many ways, it is.

The other day, at work, one of my colleagues handed me a large collection of reading glasses I had been leaving in the same little drawer over the past few months. I'd been wondering why everything has seemed so blurry. Armed with my newly rediscovered arsenal of drug store readers in every color of the rainbow, I expect that I will once again be able to see things more clearly. No more fuzzy outlines, no more indistinct words. A little bit of magnification goes a long way toward eliminating ambiguity.

From here on in, I won't go anywhere without a pair of specs. The blinders are off, and I hope like hell I never have to say -- or hear -- those three words again.