The Past

            I have found something. I mean usually if I write something in this little collection of stories I have found something, but I truly have figured something out. Humans spend eighty percent of their time thinking about the past. They talk with family members and joke about how Uncle Eric thought it would be a good idea to shove a car down a hill with only the power of gravity and let it land on a flatbed trailer on the back of his piece of shit pick up truck. Friends talk about the time they went to the mall and followed a security around doing exactly as he does as they walked two steps behind him. Or when couples talk about their childhood and how they loved to play in the rain as kids. Past is a big factor of all conversation, and life, in human beings. Now, here come the differences:

            Males talk about past with a better attitude. They talk about the stupid shit. The drunken brawls with a cow at three in the morning that your father held when you were two. However, chicks like to talk about the past that hurts them. True they do bring up happy times, they bring up the time Aunt Kate was running away from a bat and smacked into a fish tank and did a flip into the 72 gallons of water. Even still, chicks like to talk to their sisters at 1:49 in the morning about how fucked up their lives were and all the bad decisions they made. You know what? I respect that.

            I respect the fact that they can talk about shit that hurts. Guys sure as hell can’t. Guys don’t like talking about the time mommy left them alone in the dark when they wanted a hug. Girls will. Girls will talk to their moms and tell them, “Mom, I wanted a hug and you left me, I wanted a hug, I wanted to tell you I loved you, and you left me.” Then the mom will cry and look into the teary eyes of their daughter and apologize, and make some kind of joke to cheer her up.

            But ladies and gentlemen, I have a confession. I must confess something that I haven’t said in years. I love my mom. I love my sister. I love my dad, and my brother. Most of all, I love my past. I love every tear I shed, every laugh I exclaimed, I loved every mother fucking second of it. My years spent with my mom in the apartment in Kentucky. The nights I would stay up and talk to her on my bed into a tape recorder. Then there are memories with my psychotic aunt. The time my mom left me alone, in the dark, when I wanted a hug. The past hurts. It hurts a lot. And I am too much of a male to call my mom right now and say, “Mom, why did you leave me when I wanted a hug?” If only I were female… man it even feels like treason when I say that, but still, if I were a chick, I could do it.

            Still, this article isn’t about my past and me. Its about the past itself and the love of it that humans share. It all goes into my human quest for pain theory.    Human beings love to feel pain, and even go out of their way to feel pain because it is easier, but, and I didn’t stress this fact in the previous article, humans feel pain because it is a common feeling, and the resolution feels good, when someone helps you out of it.

            Do you remember when you were a kid and you’d run really fast and trip, then you skin your knee? Pain. Do you remember getting back up and running to your mom and crying to her, begging for a band-aid? Help. Do you remember the feeling you got when the band-aid was on, and your mom hugged you and told you that you were going to be all right? Resolution. You see, no matter what the situation, you always have resolution from pain. Pain is always healed one way or another.

            Someone is heartbroken as a car hits their cat. Pain. Your parents tell you he’s in kitty heaven. Help (not very good help, but help none the less.) Then you walk home from school, still heartbroken; to find a cat following you home. You pick up the cat and it likes you, you run home, clutching the cat, you beg your dad to let you keep it, he says yes. Resolution (until mom gets home and dad tells mom what he let you do, and mom smacks the shit out of dad. Pain for dad.)

            Now I am not going to get on here and explain this pain, resolution bullshit. Instead, I am going to wrap this article up considering my goddamn girlfriend is trying to talk to me now (Yes, Paige and I are back together, I'll give you details some other day, now I must play the role as loving boyfriend). Gosh girlfriends are fruity. You know I remember this one time I was in third grade I walk over to this chick…