It all went wrong at the sound of the the sound that sounded like a dog chain rattling that told me I shouldn’t be out on my porch under the not well lit stairs in front of the locked door drunk in the summer not yet summer air reading student papers that made me want to write in big bold letters if only I had a pen in my pocket instead of these keys that wouldn’t let me in fast enough if this was in fact a dog let loose from his chain which is what it sounds like – you’re a blogger – and I could google for you and find you if I wanted to – which I won’t because I respect your privacy and I know that you aren’t bob but that you are you and that you might write this way to get your thoughts across but I have no realm or right to look for you out there even if I know I could – find you out in a few short seconds – key strokes waiting for me to find you out – if only I hadn’t spend the last 45 minutes explaining to my poor tear stained distraught brother that what my mother just spent over an hour explaining to me in response to what my brother had, previously, spent 2 and a half hours trying to tell me wasn’t just some fucked-up stupid construction about what makes a wife a wife and what makes a mother a mother – then maybe the world would seem simpler – maybe I wouldn’t have spent over a decade trying to fit into that false construction that becomes like god – something that people talk about but that I just can’t believe in – maybe then I wouldn’t still hear the haunting ring of the chain that sounds like a dog let loose from his chain that makes me fumble with my keys scared and wishing I were already inside the confines of my own rooms where I make and understand the definitions that clearly make up this life for which I subscribe and keep trying to live honestly – maybe then I wouldn’t be so afraid – I could find you out, girl, I could find your page and I could read all your insides out. But I won’t. because I am you. and you are me. I am bob. You are bob. We are the dog’s chain rattling.