Seven Lessons My Parents Taught Me

I grew up in offices carved carefully out of buildings, that held men with degrees,promising to fulfill me. They would sit there, legs crossed, fingers clutching a pen, while I sat and I told them about the time when, I had learned my first lesson. Oh how long it had been! My father was yelling at the top of his lungs, and my mother just kept saying “Oh, what have you done”! And I remember it hit me. I was just far too young, and I couldn’t comprehend just what had begun.

Lesson one.

Never make a home out of someone, or an apartment, or a complex, or a condominium. They’re far too fragile. Sure they’re pretty, and they have a nice view, but it won’t be long until they find something wrong with you. You’re far too broken, and you’re glass keeps getting all over the floor. And you take your heart out so much, you’re getting blood on the door.

Lesson four.

Yes, I know I skipped lessons three and two, but I just can’t bring myself to explain them to you. So, lesson four. Never love them more. That’s how women get bruises, and hearts become sore. And remember, even if you somehow survive, those are the hearts that are hardest to revive.

Lesson five.

Never underestimate the power of pride. When they told you it was confidence on fire, they lied. My father gambled with hearts, still beating and warm, but to his precious pride, he’d do no harm. And as for those lifeless hearts that he risked, they never really could figure out how to be fixed.

Lesson six.

Voids and vodka don’t mix, and I get that people don’t deal well with emptiness, but send your masochistic ways into the abyss before they send you to heaven.

Lesson seven.

When I was eleven,

I asked my father where he got his purple heart.

He said, “when the bomb shelters were torn apart”.

Turns out that was a metaphor.

He meant life is a cold war,

that far too many have died fighting for.