Ben Bonkoske

I’m the luckiest loser. I’m so hostile while all I want in the midst of this celebratory social distancing is a hug. I can’t believe how insecure I was. I still am, but all to myself. What luck. Once, I was told I am a good man, but even if I look like one in the mirror there are many debts to be repaid. I romanticize a lot of authors who died before they were recognized for their genius. Toole, Fitzgerald, Lovecraft, and as much as I would rather be understood and celebrated in the afterlife, it would be nice to be remembered while I’m still alive. I have good close friends. They are better men in a different sense than me. Ain’t it the truth that our flaws are our true beauty. I smell shampoo when I run. I think of one of the few people I write for, still, today, years later because I haven’t met anyone worthy of an article in almost three years (had to think about that one). That’s how long I’ve been damned to hell. A self-imposed curse I gave myself. There is a lot of things I would give up for a hug these days, but to my dismay, writing is not one of them. It was the last gift my mother gave. If you didn’t know this about me, I started writing the day after her funeral. I still have it, because it holds me closer than a hug from a spirit. To hell with date nights, I have many reasons to feel inadequate, in so many ways, but I truly feel lucky to be the worst of the best.