Dear Frankie...
letter 16
Dear Frankie,
This is the moment, or more like the letter where I tell all the horrible stuff I never told you but you deserve to know.
Not the stupid stuff like when I had my cast removed and had to invent stupid excuses not to get an x-ray or how I write statistics involving animal slaughter in the bathroom stalls of every McDonald's I go into.
No, this is the horrible stuff you tell your shrink about so you can forget about it.
You deserve to know because it’s how I ended a having a tiny human being growing inside my body, how Shawnie knew me from when I was Tina and how I’m just a huge excuse of a person.
But mostly you deserve to know, because after all it’s your kid too.
And you’ve probably wondered, if you have read any of the letters, if I ever considered not keeping the baby. It’s not like I’m the most faithful catholic.
I did fuck you and we’re not married or anything.
So yeah. I did. I even booked an appointment and showed up and everything.
I got a pelvic exam, signed a shit load of forms under name Tina and pawned my camera to pay for it.
Then I wrote you a letter, and this is how the whole letter business got started.
In New Jersey there aren’t any abortion restrictions, like prep talks or waiting periods. They only make you pack a bag with a robe, and slippers and have someone pick you up.
I didn’t bring anyone and I just sort of wrote Finn as my billing and emergency address. Then I bought a new white robe and white slippers at Wal-Mart. It all just stank of disaster. I figured I’d throw those away when they were done.
Wal-Mart is made for that you see, for getting and throwing away. Nothing has a value that can’t be bought with cash.
When I got there, I got cold feet. And I just sort of walked out on Shawnie mid-sentence, halfway between removing my pants and slipping into that robe. I walked for hours, then got my camera back and sat on the bus stop even longer. And then I wrote you another letter which is the first letter I sent. And now I’m writing you this letter because I guess you deserve to know.
I didn’t cry or anything. I just knew I couldn’t do that. Maybe it was my extreme catholic childhood, maybe it was doing it alone. I dunno. Somehow it was also those white slippers and robe. Made to be thrown away. I guess I felt sick I could throw away something like a pair of slippers valued at $ 8.89.
It’s just strange, I’m not against abortion or anything. I just couldn’t do it.
Maybe it you had been here everything would have been over before it started and everything would be different.
I’d rather not think about what could have been or should have been, ever. Because this, this is all there is. And you, you are out there and I’m, or we if you should like to think that, are here.
a.
This is the moment, or more like the letter where I tell all the horrible stuff I never told you but you deserve to know.
Not the stupid stuff like when I had my cast removed and had to invent stupid excuses not to get an x-ray or how I write statistics involving animal slaughter in the bathroom stalls of every McDonald's I go into.
No, this is the horrible stuff you tell your shrink about so you can forget about it.
You deserve to know because it’s how I ended a having a tiny human being growing inside my body, how Shawnie knew me from when I was Tina and how I’m just a huge excuse of a person.
But mostly you deserve to know, because after all it’s your kid too.
And you’ve probably wondered, if you have read any of the letters, if I ever considered not keeping the baby. It’s not like I’m the most faithful catholic.
I did fuck you and we’re not married or anything.
So yeah. I did. I even booked an appointment and showed up and everything.
I got a pelvic exam, signed a shit load of forms under name Tina and pawned my camera to pay for it.
Then I wrote you a letter, and this is how the whole letter business got started.
In New Jersey there aren’t any abortion restrictions, like prep talks or waiting periods. They only make you pack a bag with a robe, and slippers and have someone pick you up.
I didn’t bring anyone and I just sort of wrote Finn as my billing and emergency address. Then I bought a new white robe and white slippers at Wal-Mart. It all just stank of disaster. I figured I’d throw those away when they were done.
Wal-Mart is made for that you see, for getting and throwing away. Nothing has a value that can’t be bought with cash.
When I got there, I got cold feet. And I just sort of walked out on Shawnie mid-sentence, halfway between removing my pants and slipping into that robe. I walked for hours, then got my camera back and sat on the bus stop even longer. And then I wrote you another letter which is the first letter I sent. And now I’m writing you this letter because I guess you deserve to know.
I didn’t cry or anything. I just knew I couldn’t do that. Maybe it was my extreme catholic childhood, maybe it was doing it alone. I dunno. Somehow it was also those white slippers and robe. Made to be thrown away. I guess I felt sick I could throw away something like a pair of slippers valued at $ 8.89.
It’s just strange, I’m not against abortion or anything. I just couldn’t do it.
Maybe it you had been here everything would have been over before it started and everything would be different.
I’d rather not think about what could have been or should have been, ever. Because this, this is all there is. And you, you are out there and I’m, or we if you should like to think that, are here.
a.