Monthly Archives: September 2013

Thoughts On The Bus

 

Everyday Existential Crises

1. The shrinking moon.
2. No coffee in the coffee cups on Gilmore Girls, ever.
3. 5:00AM anywhere.
4. The number of cats I have met named Schrödinger (0r named Schrödinger’s Cat).
5. The number of cats I have met not named Schrödinger (0r named Schrödinger’s Cat).
6. Tinted windows at Chuck E. Cheese.
7. Being told to smile. By a stranger. Anyone.
8. Bill Paxton or Dennis Quaid? BILL PAXTON or DENNIS QUAID?
9. Maps in novels.
10. Those who refer to other animals, not monkeys, as monkeys.
11. The REFRESH button.
12. Sequels.
13. Scattered showers.
14. For now, for a while, zombies and superheroes. Where ever.
15. Everyone at Chapters.
16. “Cash money”.
 

Band Names*

1. Nature Calls
2. Pamphlet
3. Purple Nurple
4. PANGEA!
5. The Least We Could Do
6. Bothered
7. American Coot
8. The Taxidermists
9. Two Dollar Cover Charge
10. Windowpane
11. Lucky Rabbit’s Foot
12. The Dirty Puns
13. Harry Carrie
14. Eat Up Martha
15. Read My Blog
 

Possible Tumblrs

1. Cops With Goatees
2. Bread is Pain
3. Attend to My Wounds
4. 5:00AM Anywhere
5. That Warm Body Next to Me
6. Pretty Shirts on Men
7. Free Gift With Purchase
8. TO BE SURE…
9. George Denzel Washington Craver
 

Birds I Have Seen

1. Indigo Bunting
2. Red-Eyed Vireo
3. Bohemian Waxwing
4. YO MOMMA
5. American Coot
 

Possible Pubs and/or Restaurants

1. The Cock & Block
2. THE TAXIDERMISTS
3. Clarice Starling’s Place
4. The Vegan Tart
5. The Shrinking Moon
 

Thoughts on the Bus

1. See above, all.
 

*Band names I had to delete from this list, because they already exist, for real: The Freudian Slits, Aftershave, Razorburn, Dreamboat and Montezuma’s Revenge.

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Filed under Interruptions, Philosophy, Words

Rated R

 

 *~*~*~*~*~*

It’s not infatuation, its more than mere lust

My feelings for you, you must believe me and trust

My heart you have stolen, my soul you’ve enticed

You’re all that I want, I’ll make you my life

I cannot explain, what things you have done

But I’ll wait for the moment, in my life you will come

I’ll cherish the time, that we’ll have together

But until you are mine, you’re my only endeavor

You are my fantasy, and my obsession

To hope one day I’ll touch you, and share our affection

You’ll be the one, the one I’ll wait for

The precious and chosen one, the one I adore
 
*~*~*~*~*~*
 
A boy gave me this poem once. It was intricately folded into the shape of a heart. To read the poem, I had to unfold the heart, piece by intricately folded piece.

This poem[1] taught me a lot about what we call “Romance” (big R) is about.

So I kept it. I kept the poem.

My memento mori.
 
*~*~*~*~*~*
 
It’s not infatuation, its more than mere lust/My feelings for you, you must believe me and trust

“More than mere lust” strikes as so much “it puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again”, trust being utterly removed from it.

My heart you have stolen, my soul you’ve enticed

But, like, OK. How exactly did I do that? I spoke to you a few times in the hallway, among our mutual friends. I think you saw me eating a personalized pizza once, in the cafeteria?

You’re all that I want, I’ll make you my life/I cannot explain, what things you have done/But I’ll wait for the moment, in my life you will come

Make me, and for reasons you cannot explain… There is an apparent double entendre in here that is too obvious not to be too subtle.

I’ll cherish the time, that we’ll have together/But until you are mine, you’re my only endeavor/You are my fantasy, and my obsession

Is this a self-esteem Thing? This is a self-esteem Thing, isn’t it? This is totally about self-esteem.

To hope one day I’ll touch you, and share our affection

WHAT AFFECTION??

You’ll be the one, the one I’ll wait for/The precious and chosen one, the one I adore

Yes, but can I still work after the children are born?
 
*~*~*~*~*~*
 
There are people out there who will say I am being very mean. There are people out there who will believe I am being very ungrateful.[2] We never talked about it afterward the boy and I, but the boy, he never looked at me the same.

We never did become friends.

There are those who will say that I am being very insensitive, given what can at very least be called the boy’s very good intentions. I will say that this idea of being pursued – say, as a fantasy, as an obsession – makes the whole Thing not even remotely about me, the person who is standing on the other side of all this, blinking furiously. Blinking like the fucking wind.

And we should all know what good intentions bring.

Bad poetry, for starters.
 


[1] I’m using the term very loosely here. Like, bowels loosely.

[2] The two being not necessarily exclusive.

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Filed under People, THE PAST, Words