That's What You Do (The And Now I'm Dead Remix)
From the moment you are born, everyone - friends, parents, television, movies - is telling you how you must be. What kind of life you should have.
They hold up perfection and expect you to mirror it.
You grow up in a family. Not the best. There are arguments. Distance. (Your father, sullen and angry, expecting things he never thinks to inform you of.)
You survive high school. Get accepted to a lousy college. You go because you've got nothing better to do. And again, it is one of those things that you think is probably expected of you.
Then, at just another Friday night frat party, you get drunk and plan on shagging some chick with great tits. And you have no idea that you've just changed your life forever. Molecules hit, and dance away, their paths forever changed. Chaos enters the equation. Your carefully ordered future, degree, job, convertible, ski-ing. Gone. Blown away, just like that. You always wanted a better car than your cousin, but now, no chance of that happening.
You hope it was worth it.
You introduce yourself, but you're not really listening. That ass. Fucking great ass. Epic. Legendary. You hope she's easy.
And on Mike's unmade bed upstairs, you find out she is. And it's all going great until Mike comes blundering in and starts shouting about his dirtied sheets. Though you know he only came barging in because he wanted to see some skin. And it's the funniest thing that has ever happened.
Then something unexpected happens. You sit up for the rest of the night, talking. And making out. And talking. And for the first time in your life, you can't decide which you enjoy the most. She wants to be an artist. You want to write. And it seems to have so much meaning. You want to write it down there and then. But you don't, and you forever regret that you didn't.
Before the sun rises, you both declare your love.
Part of you thinks its too fast, heck, most of you thinks it is too fast. But for some reason everything is out of control, and every time you try and raise some logical point about why you need to slow down, you see her hip, her breast, her curves, and your mind just, forgets what it was going to say. Leaving you breathless.
You fall in love without thinking.
That's what you do.
After that, it's like you're never apart from her. And you get to have so much sex, every day is like Christmas and thanksgiving all rolled into one epic night of passion. And your friends are so jealous, or at least you think they are, you hardly have time to talk to them anymore. And soon they stop talking to you, but nothing about that really matters.
Everything about her enchants you. Her ass. Her breasts. Her mouth. The way she understands, the way she listens. You think women exist because men need somebody to confess too. Somebody who will listen and pretend to understand. Somebody you can tell the truth to. Somebody with a great ass. You find yourself smiling a whole lot more than you used to.
So, as soon as you graduate, you get married.
That's what you do.
Then the apartment. It's small. And it's embarrassing. She says it doesn't matter, all that matters is that she is close to you. But you know, looking around the four small walls, that you must do better for her. You need more room. You must provide for her. This is how your success as a man is judged.
So you throw yourself into your writing, she paints. And you live off money from your parents, and from flipping burgers. And every time you look at yourself in the mirror you see a failure, for not providing enough for her, this creature that you love so much. And you know you must love her, because you do it three times a day. You're happy.
Then, after one argument too many, your parents stop giving you money. And you finally have to face up to what you knew all along: Dreams are for dreaming, not for living. And it hurts inside, and you feel something break, but you know you need to make sacrifices. You'd be happy on the poverty line, but she wouldn't. She needs the bigger house, she needs the car, because you know, she also needs the baby.
And that's when you get the job at the advertising agency. You tell her some crap about how it doesn't matter, how inside you believe you can change the way they run their business. You tell her you'll revolutionise them. You tell her you can do all of these things and many more, even though you know you can't. But she believes you, because she loves you. And because she wants to believe you. And it hurts inside, and you feel something break.
Because that's what you do.
Until finally you have enough money for the down-payment, and you sign the dotted line, and secure the mortgage. Twenty-five years. The thought of twenty-five years keeps you awake at night. Listening to the sound of your heart. You turn to her and make love, to silence the thoughts. Because everything goes away to the sound of her moaning.
And you're happy. Because haven't you got the perfect life?
And then.
Then she tells you she is pregnant. And it sounds so exciting. A little life. And you grab her and kiss her and tell her how beautiful the baby is going to be, just like she is. And she looks down, and her hand is upon her stomach. And right then is when you first feel it.
She has the baby. It's a girl; you name her Jane. And life is transformed into a stinking nappy-filled sleepless nightmare. The books say it will end sometime, and logic seems to dictate that one small creature cannot possibly cry all the time, and part of your mind keeps trying to convince you that you really don't need sleep anyway. And for the first time in your life, you almost start to enjoy being at work, in the peace and quiet. And you know it's stupid and selfish, because you love them both.
Jane grows a little older. And suddenly your wife doesn't think you're earning enough money to support them both. Jane needs more, Jane needs a bigger house, in a better area, with a nicer school. And houses in places like that cost real money, so she wants to get a job too, in real estate.
And you're surprised to hear that she's stopped painting. When did that happen, you ask. And she shouts at you that she stopped that nonsense years ago.
You wonder if she misses it. And you know she doesn't. And this makes you sad.
So you work harder, and support her while she gets her licence. And everything is fine. Except for that feeling. But you are young, and in love. And doing what you're supposed to be doing.
Then, something happens that you can't quite describe. Only, you can. Because you have known it for a long time, when you saw her holding Jane in her arms in the hospital bed. And you were so happy. But you knew that you were no longer the most important thing in her life anymore. That now, and forevermore, you would be less. And that the girl with the beautiful ass, was all-yours no more. Love is selfish. Love is jealous.
And you don't know how to deal with this. You want to ask him, your father, but you can't find the words. So instead you watch the game, awkwardly, and he thinks you're only there to ask for money. You want to ask your mates, but they don't seem to be around anymore. So instead you just put your head down, and keep going.
That's what you do.
And somehow she has become obsessed with her job, and the image, and having the right clothes and the right colours, and the right furniture. And you know you've never had so much money before in your life, you don't know what to do with it. So she spends it on an Italian silk couch, or something. And all you want to do is spill chips down the back of it. But you don't, because you know you can't disappoint her, and you have to make her happy, because she controls you now. But it doesn't seem to work. It doesn't seem to make her happy, no matter how much of yourself you sacrifice at her alter.
And your own happiness slips away, like dreams in the morning.
She doesn't talk to you anymore, not like you talked before the baby came along. You try to get closer to her, you try so hard, and even though you don't realise it, you try too hard. And all you do is succeed in pushing her away. And you blame yourself, your own failures, your own weakness, your own petty spiteful heart. You never have sex anymore. You start jerking off in the shower. You can't stand to see her ass anymore, because it reminds you of what you've lost. And the frustration boils into anger, and you start arguing.
You know she hates you. And you are confused. And hurt. And you hate yourself.
But she won't admit there is a problem. So soon, you give up trying to fix it. Because you're a man, and you try to fix problems. That's your role. And when you fail, you fail as a man.
But you still have Janey. She is such a beautiful little girl, the only thing in your life that made any sense. Only, one day you wake up, and suddenly she's become a teenager. And just when you thought your life couldn't get any worse, your beautiful little girl, who you were so close to, starts to hate you with all of her fiery little heart.
And this is the greatest hurt of all. And now you do blame her, because you have to blame somebody. Because she starts to treat Janey in the same way she treats you. And you wish you had the words to fix it. And when Jane snaps back at her mother, you have to hide your smile with your hand, because she sounds so much like you. And you're so proud. But then she snaps at you too.
Jane hates you. But you can't hate her back. Because you love her with all of your heart. But that doesn't seem to stop that woman you married from making the horrible comments, undermining her self-esteem, wielding that knife of cruelty that women seem borne to.
So you retreat, because you hate your life so much. You sink into denial. You enter the coma. You never want to wake up, so you put yourself to sleep. You have the house, wife, daughter, car, garden, job. You should be happy, shouldn't you? The little sacrifices you made to get here shouldn't matter, should they? You think to yourself, they must have been little. Otherwise how could you have thrown them away so easily?
That's what you do with dreams.
Then, one day. You quit your job.
But, I forget. You know this part already, don't you. This is where we met.
And now I'm dead, but I really can't complain. I managed to get my dreams back after all, and that is a rare and special thing. And I realized that I never really stopped loving her, I just wish she'd never buried that part of her that was vulnerable, I wish she could have trusted me to look after it. Just I wish I had never buried the vulnerable part of myself.
But I got my dreams back.
And I hope you can do the same.