My Regrets

I wish I did more art. Made more things. I like to make things. I wish I made things and sold them.

I wish I sold them and folks came around and paid a lot of money for them and said “Now those are some nice things.” I oughta be up all night stripped to the waist, a brush in my hand, another in my teeth, obscure as hell modern classical music blasting out of a beat up, paint spattered, pink Hello Kitty tape deck I filched from a Walmart, making things that people would open their wallets for and say “MAN, you seen these things?”

Wish I’d kissed that girl in high school. Wish I’d been born with better cheekbones. Know what would have been good? If it turned out I’d been adopted and was the child of someone special, like royalty or aliens, and I had some sort of birth right. Wish I’d found out at some point I had a birthright to claim.

I should have bought that car when I had the money, drove cross-country with the top down. I should have driven through the desert like a madman with one hand on the wheel and some real keen shades and a killer chick laughing ‘cause we were CRAZY and we do not give a little tin crap. A real American muscle car. I should have spent the time to learn enough about cars to know what the hell a muscle car is.

If I could say, “Man, you should have seen it. Hail the size of softballs” and not be lying, that would be something, right? If someone asked me “Where’d you get that tattoo?” and I could pull on a hand rolled smoke and say “Damned if I know” between tight grit teeth? I wish Tattoo’s weren’t as common as the god damn cold. I wish I didn’t think it would hurt so much to get one. I should have squinted like a young Clint Eastwood. I should have broken that guys nose for asking. I should have been so mean I killed a guy for snoring.

Is it too late to be the kind of guy you don’t want to get mixed up with? Is it really too late for that? I could fit in those old pants again if I worked at it.

It’s not like I’m asking for a Talk show. I just think I should have been a frequent guest. The kind you go “Oh, that guy, man this show rocks whenever that guys on. And the host? Has got some CHEMISTRY with that guy. I wonder what the hell that guy has been up to since the last time he was on?”

If I’d never said I’d do half the things I said I’d do, I’d sure as hell be someone different now. Argue with that. Hell, If I did half the things I said I’d do, right? My own mother wouldn’t recognize me. Or yours.

Should have got in on the ground floor of the goddamn Dot Com and got out before it collapsed, right? Timing, you know? Don’t tell me. I’ve been there. That’s a block I’ve been all the way around and I wish like hell I hadn’t.

Wish I had a dime for every time your cake hole was catching flies. Wish I’d tied my wagon to another star, hell anything, I could have tied my wagon to a stray dog with senile dementia, I mean, Jesus Wept, wouldn’t it have been nice to have something besides a friggin’ WAGON to tie to anything at all, let alone a star? I mean, a wagon, is that dignified?

Tell you what, though. I blame you. Because you enabled the shit out of me and that is the god damn truth, that is a truth you can take to the bank and CARVE your damn signature into, because it is Granite, my friend.

Oh, yes. Granite.

I’ll tell you something else. This is not over. Not by a long shot. I’m going to do some very big things before they pull the curtain. The hell if I’m going into a box without leaving my goddamn mark. Count on it. Count to Goddamn one hundred with your eyes god damn closed and no god damn peeking. THEN look for me. Good friggin’ luck. Call ollie-ollie-oxen-free ‘till your throat is raw, I am not coming in.

Anyway, that’s what I wish I said.


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