Remember when Phoebe sang:
“I want to live at
Where somebody else makes the bed
We’ll watch TV while
The lights on the street
Put all the stars to death
It’s been on my mind since Bowie died
Just checking out to hide from life
And all of our problems, I’m gonna solve ’em
With you riding shot-gun, speeding, ’cause fuck the cops”
I can’t promise I’ll solve anything
but you won’t be disappointed
in the way I’d damn sure try.
If I could go back to that Saturday night when I sent that email to you, the one I thought would make you chuckle just a little bit and then send me one back saying what a nightmare the weekend had been for you, I’d snatch it right out of space and replace it with one of compassion and empathy. That is what I feel for you. I don’t know why my knee jerk reaction to your predicament was (what I thought was) humor. I can see clearly now, it wasn’t the appropriate response nor the one your ego and pride needed when you came home. I should have soothed you You needed me to take care of you and instead I playfully chided you.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I was just so relieved you were actually ok. It didn’t occur to me that you might be devastated by this. Or that you might feel bad about yourself
I wish I could talk to you so you would know I don’t feel bad about you. I didn’t when I found out and I don’t now.
I don’t care if you fuck up sometimes
‘Cause I’m gonna fuck up too.
You’re still the same to me as you always were and you’re never going to do anything to change that.