Rainy days remind me of worm eggs that float after the centrifugation of a fecal sample. When it rains, puddles of water are formed. And when puddles of water join together, it floods. And the world, which literally is full of fecal material, becomes one giant test tube in a centrifuge. And it’s just disgusting.
Rain makes mud. And I remember the day I had to literally run away from home because my father hated me so much, he nearly clobbered me with the hammer. As I ran under the rain, I stepped on a mud hole, soaking my furry little foam slippers. Every step I made from there, it made a funny squishing sound. No, it wasn’t funny.
The noise rain makes as it falls on the roof. It’s always the same as it did on those Friday nights I spent making love to someone I never really learned to love, in a real dingy apartment that smelled of burnt weed and molds. No, it was not love.
Rain reminds me of the one person I only ever truly shared myself with, and yes, perhaps loved. It was one of the happiest times of my life. Hours and hours of just talking and laughing and just being crazy. And walking in the rain. We were soaked, we were cold, we had mud on our feet, but we never cared. We were happy.
I never really liked the rain. It reminds me of things I’d rather not remember, and things I’d never have again.
