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This, Is Frank

This, Is Frank.

Frank is a moth that my roommate and I found last night, and in the process of trying to capture and release outside our apartment, ended up naming, and creating an elaborate backstory for.

Frank is a moth with severe dementia. He is married to his wife named Marge who sounds like a stereotypical Jewish grandmother from Staten Island (it was late, we weren’t going to be creative about our old moth-y female figures).

I’m considering writing a children’s book called, ‘Frank! Get the Fuck Out of Here!” similar to the style of Adam Mansbach’s brilliant, "Go the Fuck to Sleep". (Which, if you haven’t read, you should definitely get here, and listen to Samuel L. Jackson read it here). I know what you’re thinking, “Wouldn’t a book like that probably be heavily criticized by those severely affected by moth dementia?”

To those people I say, “Fuck you. I’m affected by it too. I don’t want to kill Frank, and I don’t care if he hangs around but he consistently forgets basic facts about his size and stature in relation to MY size and stature and ends up near my shoes in the hallway and one night I WILL accidentally squish him in what some may see as a drunken rage, but I will simply see as a drunken haze.”

In the coming weeks, I’ll pull together some concept art for you all to enjoy, and maybe even some selections from the book itself.

You never know, maybe I can get someone from Staten Island to read the book too.

For… Erhm… Consistencies sake. Yeah. That.

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Today

I was informed how much I messed up.

To tell the truth, this was a moment where I did nothing wrong, yet I feel more guilty about messing up because I failed to realize how someone could see my actions as harmful.

I cannot, and should not speak about mistakes I’ve made, and yet I find that once again I am stuck with this overwhelming regret for something I doubt I will ever feel less accountable and sorry for, even in twenty years.

I still feel bad about throwing mud in a kids eye in first grade, even though he flung a pile at me first, and was pushed from behind by that horrible nuisance kev-wait.

No.

I do things, and I regret them.

That is my task and my burden.

But why?