My mouth is really small for how many times I’ve put my foot in it. I babble myself into some tirade, whether education, politics, or religion. I’ve got too much to say, and anxious before an audience, words explode like bubbles of thoughts or opinions without thinking.

For weeks after I go out, I puzzle over what came out of my mouth.

Nothing is different in my house, except when I speak, I get a look, annoyance or disdain (I’m still not sure), that says, “How fucking stupid are you?”

And so I close my mouth, turning off my sound, still making noise as I roll over eggshells covering the man-cave ground.

Instead of a pass, I take a hit like a pound and blow it out with a door slam after a quick wheel-spin round.

My dad used to say when I was growing up, “Nobody gives a shit about what your shit. They have their own shit to worry about.”

So, I learned to work at being a good listener. Unfortunately, the man I know has nothing to say.

Conversations can put leaves on my tree as in spring or kill my roots like a desert drought. (The latter seems to be my present route.)

I wish I could go back in time, finish the nine hours I have left on my MA in Literature, use my mouth for the good of our posterity…

Instead, in my little world, with the confidence tongue-whipped out of my words and my personality grey, I write to escape my reality.