My morning Fuck YOU.
Each morning I walk my block and each morning I am greeted at one particular corner by the jaunty permanent scrawl of a poorly written “Fuck YOU” etched in the sidewalk concrete.
Some mornings I take it personally. Those are the “fuck me” sort of days, the ones where all light has been sucked from the soul and the cold morning glint is just enough to make me cognizant of the evil betrayal and vindictiveness of each cell and atom inside that is failing to make me worthwhile. Those days, YES. Fuck me for sure, I concur, nameless sidewalk author.
On other days I accept the Fuck YOU as a blanket statement, not directed at me, of course not, but instead an exuberant epithet to the universe which I then raise as a flag overhead, no longer accepting blame, but instead agreeing with the universal trajectory of oh yes FUCK YOU and FUCK YOU ALSO and even FUCK THIS and probably FUCK THAT and even maybe a solid GO FUCK YOURSELF YOU FUCK. On those days I join in mental solidarity with this nameless street poet and echo their singular war anthem as my own.
Then there are the days where the weight of those two words seems like too much, the last grains of sand that will irrevocably tip the scales of choosing to go on or not. On those days I make every effort to not see them, thinking of anything else, averting my eyes before they arrive.
This is of course a hopeless undertaking, as even under 6 inches of packed snow I can feel it beating out at me, a living thing, this Fuck YOU under my feet daring me to not acknowledge, an expletive telltale heart. Thinking about not thinking about a thing is like cutting off ones legs to lose weight for a marathon, and on those days the Fuck YOU seems etched ever deeper.
And sometimes I think of the writer, and wonder at the moment of composition. What was it like for them, in this moment of stolen permanence? Was it a plaintive cry to the chaos, the Fuck YOU of a weary fellow traveller? Or a primal rebellion against the forces of oppression, the modern day equivalent of collecting an enemies ears, or painting the blood of a dead predator on our faces while holding aloft a still steaming liver, screaming at the opaque heavens?
Or maybe it IS personal. A human who knows me and specifically wanted me to have my special pet Fuck YOU greeting me each morning, taking up aspect inside my already too cramped psyche.
Truthfully, I’ll never know for sure, but I will pass by it again, expectant of its hat tip, welcome or not, my personal Fuck YOU sending me its faithful regards tomorrow morning and forever.