Oh how I love the way the way, after Wednesday, the calendar looks empty. Like a marble in a cardboard box empty. Like I just finished the last of the ice cream empty. Like I've moved all the furniture and rugs out of the room empty.
I would tell you the things I'm going to do on those days. But right now, I just want to hear the echo of the words fall break on the bare walls.
Hear how that sounds? Isn't it beautiful?
Dear my rank advancement portfolio,
You are full of statements. Statements and arguments and evidence. Of pithiness and wit. So much so that I feel a little vertigo. So much self-regard! So much mirror-gazing! So many artifacts! So much blah blah blah!
One thing: I would like to be shut of you.
Two things: I'm gonna have to go through you so minutely that my head already hurts.
Three things: I still have to put you on the website! Gaa, links!
I am a serious, serious, admirable, accomplished person when I read the story I've told of myself in your pages.
I have had just about enough of your meddling nonsense. Please! how can you correct what you don't understand? How can you anticipate my mistake when there is no mistake in the offing, probably!
Here's what I want you to do: stop overreaching. Stop jumping the gun. Be the typographical equipment of a diffident guy, who, when he sees something actually wrong, shrugs, gestures vaguely, and says something like, that? there? maybe you oughta take a look at that, I don't know. Doesn't meet your eye.
So accusatory. So judgmental. So quick to point the finger, auto-correct. Did you ever stop to think that I might catch that stuff myself, eventually? That maybe I don't need you correcting me all the time, usually?
(but please don't let me do anything truly egregious,)