Why I Don’t Get Involved

TTV - Dont Get Involved - 1

First things first my homies and homettes! Wherever you are in this crazy planet of ours, good morning, good afternoon, good evening or good night. Enjoy it to the fullest and don’t let nobody fuck it up for you no matter what goes down.

For those of my loyal 1.5 readers that might not know by now, I have always been the baby of the family, because I have six sister who are older than me, but no brothers. One thing that I did learn at an early age was, that no matter how much I love them, I should not to get involved in their lives. By that, I mean their personal, love and family lives. I’ve always said, that I don’t get involved in other people’s lives, so they won’t get involved in mine. Even when family, friends and co-workers have asked me for advise, I stay away from that shit, because in the future, if something goes wrong, I don’t want no fucking body, pointing their fucking finger at me and saying… that’s the bad guy.

People who know me well, know that if they are looking for advise or an opinion, I’m the wrong person to come to. Don’t get me wrong, I’m an excellent listener, it’s just that I don’t get involved in other people’s shit. Thinking about it now, there are exceptions to my rule, they are my wife and our two kids, but only if they ask for my advise or opinion, other than that, I stay quiet, because all three of them are adults, who know what is right and what is wrong. So, I refuse to nag them to death.

Peace out, and with that said! I am Audi 5000 Y’all!

Her Suicide Note

tara-condell

All jokes aside my peeps, this is a really sad and personal post for me, because a couple of times, when I was very young, my mother wanted commit suicide after my father left the family. When I was around 13 years old, one day, I contemplated jumping off the roof of the building were I currently live. I almost lost my son, when he went ahead with a suicide attempt, when he was only a teenager, and around 13 years ago, my best friend committed suicide.

The truth is, that yesterday… I was reading a story in The New York Post about a young Manhattan woman, who posted her suicide note on her website, then took her life. This is the first time in my entire life, that I have read a real suicide note, but in a way, I could kind of understand how she must have felt during her last few minutes. For some unknown reason, her note brought all the above memories back and I couldn’t stop thinking about this stranger’s last few minutes and what must have been passing through her mind as she made her final decision. Not only that, but I kept thinking about her mother, friends and the worried co-workers who called the cops after she did not show up for work. As a matter of fact, when I got home, I had to tell my wife how I was feeling, because it was just driving me crazy.

While at home writing and editing this post, it hit me… that the one time that I was looking down from the roof… the only reason why I didn’t jump was, because I started to think about my mother and how she gave birth to 9 children, 8 girls and then me. That even after having twins die at different ages from different health problems, she kept getting pregnant, and the only reason why she did it, was because all that she wanted, was to have at least one boy. Back in 1969, they didn’t have all the technology that we have today, so when she was pregnant with me, she said that if she gave birth to another girl, she would stop trying to have a boy. Then on Sunday October 19, 1969, I surprised her. While looking down from the roof, I asked myself. How can I do this to her and my sisters? What will happen to them? How will they handle it? So I walked away.

The following is an unedited copy… of what I’d rather call… Tara Condell‘s last note.

I Hate The Word “Bye”, But See You Later Maybe?

I have written this note several times in my head for over a decade, and this one finally feels right. No edits, no overthinking. I have accepted hope is nothing more than delayed disappointment, and I am just plain old-fashioned tired of feeling tired.

I realize I am undeserving of thinking this way because I truly have a great life on paper. I’m fortunate to eat meals most only imagine. I often travel freely without restriction. I live alone in the second greatest American city (San Francisco, you’ll always have my heart). However, all these facets seem trivial to me. It’s the ultimate first world problem, I get it. I often felt detached while in a room full of my favorite people; I also felt absolutely nothing during what should have been the happiest and darkest times in my life. No single conversation or situation has led me to make this decision, so at what point do you metaphorically pull the trigger?

I’m going to miss doing NYT crosswords (I was getting really good). That one charcuterie board with taleggio AND ‘nduja. Anything Sichuan ma la, but that goes without saying. A perfect plate of carbonara (no cream!). Real true authentic street tacos. Cal-Italian cuisine. Hunan Bistro’s fried rice. The pork belly and grape mini from State Bird Provisions circa 2013. Popeye’s of course. Bambas too.

I’m also going to miss unexpected hugs. Al Green’s Simply Beautiful. Cherries in July. Tracing a sleeping eyebrow. Smoking cigarettes. The Golden Gate Bridge at sunset. That first sip of iced cold brew in sticky August. Making eye contact with people walking down the street. When songs feel like they’re speaking to your soul. Jeopardy. Saying I love you. Late night junk food binges. Shooting the shit. And especially the no-destination-in-sight long walks.

No GoFundMes, no funeral, no tributes, no doing-too-much please. All I ask now is for you to have one delicious (I mean a really really great) meal in my honor and let me go, no exceptions.

It’s selfishly time for me to be happy and I know you can get down with that. Please try to remember me as a whole human you shared memories with and not just my final act. This is not your fault. It’s not exactly easy for me either, I’m here for you. I love you. I always have and I always will, I promise. Shikata ga’nai.

I’m coming home, Dad. Make some room up on that cloud and turn the Motown up.

I’m really sorry mama.

Always, TLC