Victor, some evidence that I've read your column
Bear in mind I'm not quite a poet, though.
For Victor...
I’m an asshole because when I look good in my leather jacket,
I rarely think about the cows...it’s that special for the plain girl to feel hot.
I’m an asshole every time I flip past Olbermann for something dumb on Nick at Nite I’ve even seen before, and then I use my insomnia as an excuse: Think too much and I might never sleep again, I weakly apologize, than mainline laugh tracks like a buffoon.
I’m an asshole every time I make fun of the well-intentioned granola women I know, spirit names and all, especially since I’m respectful to their faces.(Their clean, no-makeup-wearing, 1970-hair-having faces)
I’m an asshole every time I look through my crowd for somebody “worse off” than I.
There are thousands of ways not to be a hero every day...these are mine.
Huh. For some reason, the birthday topic doesn't seem to be sparking.
I have one, but it's well beyond depressing, and since I am not, at this precise moment in time, particularly depressed, I don't want to remember what I did on someone else's birthday on 24 February, 1976.
I know. We could change it to cake.
People like cake, right?
.....so my choice is, or death...?
Cake or death?
That would depend upon whose death? Cause I have a little list...
He's a screaming three and a half year old. We dart after him, delighted. Turtles eating strawberries are new discoveries, seen through older new eyes, taking up hours. Simple toys made 60 years before him gain a new gloss. We are attacked with water and actually like it, just revelling in the bubble of uncontrolled laughter and triumph.
It's my birthday, and everyone has forgotten it. And I don't care.
I have a thought but it hasn't come to life yet.
Erin, insent.
