Some People Don’t Know What They’ve Got Until It’s Gone! By Michael Baisden
I’m staring out the window and listening to my Maxwell CD, wondering how I could have been so damned stupid. Angela was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I blew it. If I had an ounce of sense, I would have gone over to her house the minute I got back to Chicago and begged for forgiveness. But just like most stubborn and controlling men, I tried to play the hard role. Now my hard ass is sitting here alone on Thanksgiving Day, getting drunk off tequila and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Tony called earlier to invite me over to his house for dinner, thinking it would cheer me up. But I told him the only thing that would make me feel better was getting Angela back. I tried calling her to apologize for what happened, but she didn’t leave a forwarding number when she moved back to Atlanta. I even tried writing letters asking for another chance, but she wouldn’t respond. Not that I blame her. If I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t want to talk to my no-good ass either, not after what I put her through.