Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Short notes.

Dear meeting snacks,

You were colorful. You were peanuts and M&Ms and Diet Coke. You were impeccably sliced melon and lovely cheese. You were macaroons. You were vegetables and ranch dip. You were mini Reeses and peanuts, did I already say peanuts?

But no matter how many ways I arranged you on my succession of tiny paper plates, in three successive meetings, which took place all over town, you were not, nor will ever be, dinner. And that's a fact.

Thanks for trying, though,



Dear wreck of my house,

You don't have to say anything. I know. I haven't organized or straightened or cleaned, really, in weeks. Weeks? It feels like weeks.

However, I hope you don't think the above admission means that any organizing, straightening, or cleaning is imminent. 

It's really not,



Dear mending,

Do people actually mend anymore? I like to mend. I want to mend the tiny hole in this garment, the small seam that's come undone in the other garment.

Question: where is my needle and thread?

Question: when will I have the time?

etcetera etcetera, 



Dear complaining,

I am bored of how much of you I do, complaining. I am all ready to sign up for the new, non-complaining regimen, where it will be all everything is shiny! No, I will not tire you with any tiresome whining!

Yet, here I am. You, complaining, are apparently requisite. 

What's a synonym for requisite? Apt?



Dear week,

Aren't you over yet?

Seriously, get on with it,


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