• Jimmy Broccoli

I'm Going to Need for This to Happen

And then my memory slips (on purpose)– and then slips again – and then slips again – to the point reality is something different from what I had known, and I no longer cling to previous knowledge. – it’s not now how it was -


and Lycan (his name means “werewolf”), my canine son, is on my lap as I sit on the comfortable black pleather couch with sensible and supportive cushions – he is licking my face – giving me kisses – and my boyfriend is in the kitchen popping the popcorn. We’ll be watching a movie tonight.


…and reality is different. My canine son isn’t dead – he’s alive – and this reality suits me fine.


My boyfriend then sits next to me – his loving hand within mine (I’m going to marry him – he’s so gentle and loving and he loves me, despite my flaws) and Lycan walks onto his lap and gives him kisses. Lycan really likes Joe – and I’m very happy about it.


We’re watching a horror movie – and my boyfriend is squeamish (just means he’ll grip my hand tighter) and Lycan is quite fine with all the violence and the blood. He understands it – he was hit by a car in 2013 [it was my fault] – so he understands it. He wagged his tail 4 times, while within my arms – at the end his neck was squirting blood and I didn’t know how to stop it – and he died – in a very different reality – a reality where he died and I’m not now sitting next to my boyfriend, who I love very much, and he loves me – despite my flaws.


My canine son isn’t dead – and I’m sitting here on the couch with my boyfriend, and we are falling in love. And Lycan isn’t dead. He isn’t dead. He’s not dead – and I’m going to need for you to stop telling me he is.


We’re watching a horror movie and Lycan is here – he’s sitting, peacefully and happily, on my lap. I see him here and know it to be true.


“I prefer this reality”, I scream at my psychiatrist – while un-reclined on a lumpy therapy couch that should have been a chair. “I’m going to need for you to make this happen – I much prefer it”.


And she makes notes – frantically - as she always does. I think she is writing me a prescription and she may be moments away from calling the police.


So, I look down, violently, at the light blue and slightly stained carpeted ground in defeat.

I’m going to need for this to happen. I’m going to need for this to fucking happen.


And I need it right now.


How are you misunderstanding me? Am I not making myself clear?


Photo: Jimmy Broccoli



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