Regrettable

I know what you’re thinking. That I now regret eating that fourth lemon cookie. And you’re right.

But I want to talk about other, bigger regrets:

One time, when I was six, I got really really mad at my mom and ripped all her paintings she had made (oils, pastels) and put up in my room. And by one time, I mean, this actually occurred over and over again, but instead of ripping all the paintings at once, I ripped only one at a time each time I got mad. (Sometimes I had to remove the paintings from their frames.)

I got really mad a lot of times and so after like seven times of getting really angry at my mom, all the paintings were gone.

Another time I got mad at my dad for like four years. The other day I was singing this Beatles song in my head and I remembered how my dad used to sing “Good Night” to all us kids when we were little, and how he used to tell us all these stories about Blackout, his dog that saved his whole life, and how, for all those years, I had almost forgotten about Blackout and Good Night and those “Hot Dog” and “Hamburger” tosses he used to do to us onto the couch.

Sometimes I regret that I forget what I have learned.