Category: favorites

the pros and cons of having an imaginary friend

Pros:

  • Stays up late just like you
  • Likes the same things as you
  • Caring
  • Good listener
  • Never more talented than you
  • Always picks your side
  • Always wants you on imaginary team
  • Judgmental looks are invisible
  • You never have to sit alone at the movies

Cons:

  • Keeps you up late
  • Friends sit on him sometimes “by accident”
  • Friends are clearly jealous
  • Easily offended
  • Lacks dimension
  • Doesn’t tie his shoes according to the Shulchan Aruch
  • Insists the Twilight series has value as literature
  • Inability to save you a seat
  • You need to explain to other people why you are not actually sitting alone at the movies
  • Other people’s judgmental looks are not invisible
  • Prefers the term “reality-challenged”

bark

“Oh my God, are you okay?”
They see my eye, they gasp and say
I pause and choose how I’ll explain the bruise

“I caught a baseball… with my face,”
I say with a strategic pace
Then they all laugh and tension is diffused

Or I’ll shrug, I’ll say “I’m fine,”
When clearly their concern’s benign
But I can’t take the “aw”s and pity hugs

Their jaws drop, their minds unsure
Of what to say, so I assure
With a smirk, “It’s fine, I’m taking drugs”

“Prince Fielder hit me,” I might try
And technically it’s not a lie
(a football-player-sized baseball player)

Though the ball was a foul hit
They always ask, “Did you catch it?!”
Treat me like some sort of dragon slayer

“Did he say sorry at the end?”
“Was it onscreen?” they ask my friend
I hope to God it wasn’t on TV

Because me staring like a freak
As it comes flying towards my cheek
Is not what I want everyone to see

“You should see the other guy,”
I grin, and if they ask why,
I tell them it happened in a brawl

But even if they think I fought
(which I can tell you, they do not)
The other guy’s a major league baseball

It was red, then black and blue
(at one point it was yellow too)
Now small marks remain of all the gory

It hurt a bit, but I’m alright
The bark was much worse than the bite
And this bark gave me one hell of a story

dating profiles you might want to avoid

  • “There are no skeletons in my closet! 🙂 Well, okay, there are two. But they’re for research purposes, I swear.”
  • “Enjoys romantic candle-lit dinners, because electricity is the devil’s spindle.”
  • “Comes with minimal baggage! May need to borrow your clothes from time to time.”
  • “My mom says she’ll do your laundry too!”
  • “Looking for a female, ages 18-21. Must love to watch Whitney.”
  • “Trust me, I don’t play games. World of Warcraft is a way of life.”
  • “I’m a big fan of honesty. Abe Lincoln once called me the most honest person he’d ever met.”
  • “Must love dogs and not be a female one ;)”
  • “Enjoys long walks on the beach and running away from the coast guard.”
  • “Looking to share a life, not an iPad, or a soda, or a bathroom. Keep the toilet seat up, woman.”
  • “Looking for someone easygoing and fun- anything for Youtube views, am I right? ;)”
  • “I’m not looking for anything serious- that’s what my wife is for.”

pull away

She smells like the secrets she keeps, with a hint of vanilla. He only pays attention to the vanilla. Her hugs taste like scarlet pomegranate seeds, and he has to fight himself to pull away. Her words smell bitter, her hugs so sweet.

His movements are melted chocolate; every step he takes is gold. She falls into his musical arms fights to pull away. His breath is poetry, his eyes a breeze. She won’t let him go, she won’t dare. They just can’t pull away.

Over time, they spoil the connection, though their appetites don’t yield immediately. The shouting between them tastes spicier than it did before. He starts to smell the secrets. She notices, and douses herself in more vanilla.

Soon, they fight to airbrush the relationship. Sometimes they fight just to break the tension. Her smiles are canned laughter; his hugs, paper-thin. Their conversations start to sound plastic. Neither wants to fight. It’s not worth it.

Their last kiss tastes crestfallen. She moves out. He misses her vanilla; little does he know her mysteries overpower her now. She gives in to the taste of mischief, nothing holding her. He stares at his reflection and vows never to get her back. Both he and she continue on with their lives.

Sometimes, they try to make sense of it.

Neither has a clue.

writers’ block

…
The tree’s leaves… willow in the soft wind and
Willow’s not a verb, is it?
…
Why the hell am I writing about a tree? I don’t care about some boring made-up tree.
No one wants to read about trees anyway…

Looking for inspiration.
Preferably the kind that sparks a brilliant idea that unravels into my first bestselling novel.
Will pay. Actually, won’t pay. Still, though.

She turned her head and shouted… to the heavens…
Really, Tova? To the heavens?
Do you think you’re Dickens or something?
…
Well, I’ve never read Dickens. I’m assuming he was a good writer because everyone still knows his name
And he’s been dead for a really long time,
Like Beethoven, but I don’t even listen to classical music, and
…
Will they remember my name?
And will I want to be remembered for what I’m being remembered for
and will I want…
Will I want
…

I can’t post about a tree or the heavens or anything too emotional
and I keep getting sidetracked by monotonous rants in my mind
and I guess I should be funny but sometimes it just doesn’t work
because funny is only funny when funny isn’t forced
and I’m staring at my fingers and my mind is still
[my fingers on the white-and-grey keyboard (duh)],
and I can’t write about my fingers either
because uninspired inspiration makes for uninspired writing and
…

…
So what?

milk?

Writer’s note: This poem is based on an old Russian proverb, literally meaning “I’d like to drink honey with your lips,” which technically means, “it’s too good to be true.”

Her intentions seem pure.
Look at her:
Her smile so sweet. Almost too sweet.
You debate: cringe or smile back?

You’re blinded, looking at her,
By her bright white summer dress
And her bright white teeth,
White as the milk
On boxes of cereal

Then it hits you:
That’s not milk,
It’s glue.
And that grin plastered on her face?
It might be fake too.

So you cringe,
Whispering, to no one in particular,
“I’d like to drink honey with your lips.”