Musings

Xanga keeps sending me reminder emails about how they miss me and want me back, etc. Well I checked both of the old Xangas I used to have and found a VERY old poem that brought me back to little bitty me. This is years old. It’s such a shock for me to read something that I’d forgotten I’d ever written.  

homicide

or suicide

i can’t decide

which to commit

and since you died

i’ve been all

sighs and lullabies

and late-night cries

and now i just

can’t seem to

commit

We were watching a PowerPoint about Ireland and it said something like “blah blah each half of Ireland has its own blah blah” and I raised my hand and said “Wait, half? They’re not nearly equal” and he rolled his eyes, this man, he rolled his eyes and said “Fine then. Let me just fix that for you then, Ms. Literal.” I was wrong. He had wrinkles on the back of his shirt, the same wrinkles all the time, didn’t even matter which shirt he wore and they always looked like tiger claws. Like a great big tiger scraped it’s claws diagonally across his back. Neither his wife nor him knew how to iron, I suppose. If the tiger claws had been mine I would have left them too but he wasn’t me, he was a teacherbot who paid no mind to things like that. He always gelled his hair in the exact same fashion, the front bit would turn to the left like a tidal wave and it was always the left and never the right and it was always the same and never different. Until today when he came in with no gel in his hair and an ironed shirt and I wept a little for him because he was entirely gone and I knew my cute, demanding, insistent, tigerclawshirt, tidalwavehair, teacherbot would never return.

I slipped a flower under his door with a Post It that said RIP.

Hey, sunshine. I have stories that would make Satan blush. Maybe we can get together sometime, just the three of us.

I feel pretty when I spell words out loud.