Roses with a Side of Thorns

WARNING

ROSES WITH A SIDE OF THORNS-ESSAYS IS AN ARRAY OF NARRATIVES NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART, IT IS FOR ADULTS WHO ENJOY DIVERSE INCLUSIVE NON-FICTION WITH A FEW JABS.

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING A PROLIFIC WRITER

The definition of prolific is-Highly productive, capable of bearing in abundance.

For example, a songwriter can churn out five songs before breakfast, or a writer birthing two novels a year, and even a cute fluffy bunny can produce quite a number of other little bunnies, in just a few months.

I’m not a songwriter nor a bunny, but I am a writer and I’ve produced quite a number of books across several genres, therefore I can righteously claim to be a prolific writer.

I live breath and will die by the adage that writers write, and the ones who live by the pen or keyboard, tend to write all kinds of shit for both their own eyes and others, without apology or regret.

To answer the call, and to accept the challenges of being a writer means, to not only hold but to carry the mantle of being a writer high and proud, this is not for the faint of heart nor the ambivalent, and living where I have for more than three decades, you’re either All-In or you get the fuck away from the table.

Being a writer is a sacred privilege, and an honor and I bear the moniker of being a published author, with the utmost pride and reverence.

The importance of being a prolific writer needs to be dissected in order to be understood, not unlike smashing a kaleidoscope open, to see how the prisms are so seamlessly welded together.

PASS OR FAIL

I showed up for this marriage, I was bound and determined to find something in common with you I did it for selfish, practical, and desperate reasons.

I served this marriage, and I did a dis-service to this marriage, and as a result I did a dis-service to myself, and to you that served to destroy this union.

I felt you were a coward, and I definitely was being a martyr, I became enraged, and you became complacent, so when I left I knew you would be devastated, and a part of me just no longer cared.

I was simply over this relationship, and had been for several years, I mourned the loss of the relationship in it’s present form, the last year we were under the same roof.

We literally moved on to different states, you started dating because you didn’t want to be alone and you like shiny new things, while I started writing more, and I like a good cocktail party and old books.

You used to say we had emotional passion, but that’s just a nice why to say we were in constant conflict, constant conflict is actually insanity in its high form it’s wounds that never quite heal, scars that are ever present, it’s a scorched earth battlefield it’s permanent harm not passion.

Marriage is not a pass or fail college course, where you move on to the next one with fingers crossed, hoping for a better grade with an instructor you hope likes you better.

Marriage is the real world, with another real live person, with consequences for your action and inactions, you either do or do not, there is no try.

JUSTIFIABLE SIN

When I first saw the ring, I looked around my immediate surroundings in the sparsely populated bar that mid-weeknight for its owner, and I didn’t know who it belonged to but what I did know- it was owned by a male. I quickly slipped it into my pocket, and waited around for a while, but no one materialized asking about it. One year later, I am once again marveling at this possession- it is made of stainless steel, the two opposing designs look somewhat tribal connected by an uneven line that resembles a scratch. Each time I look at it, since I gave it a hiding place in my underwear drawer I have the same thought, that for it to have been blatantly left behind, just smacks of disrespect and unconcern. Handling it today, I was accidently reminded of the night I found out that was betrayed by you, unbelievably there really was calm after that storm. I couldn’t stand the sound of your voice, to look into your face, and the feel of your body, all of those things that you carelessly shared with strangers. I recall physically cringing when you declared that you loved me, that all you wanted was my happiness, that you honestly didn’t mean to do the thing you did, as many times as you did them. Another year later I’ve learned through counseling and journaling, that infidelity in most cases is a justifiable sin that occurs by accident, and that most people don’t seek it out if infidelity were a personality, it would be an opportunist. I now equate infidelity to a bullet squeezed through the barrel of unhappiness, pulled by the trigger of desperation. Infidelity usually signifies the end, it is a symptom of a