I tend to say ludicrous things like,
“Only women are worth writing about,
which is why women writers worth reading
are lesbians.” Notice the alliteration.
I’m 34, never married, with no kids.
In Nature this means I am unfit to mate.
I don’t remember birthdays (even my own),
or anniversaries, or holidays other than Halloween.
If you want a present from me, remind me…
the day before.
I fall in love too easily. A romantic,
I have never learned how to fall out of love.
Everyday will hold a surprise from me.
Effortlessly, I will gift you with flowers,
an occasional poem, or cooked meal
(though the dishes will sit until you do them).
I might not say “I love you” every day,
but if a day goes by with doubts,
I’m doing something wrong.
Honesty makes a good poet, but a poor man.
I dig on pictures of naked chicks, like kinky sex,
pack a few too many pounds, sport a bit of a meat-beard,
hate my job (though I am good at it and make enough),
have a house, drink too much, am too lonely
(though I question the absolute of loneliness),
my refractory period is measured in hours
(no longer minutes), though I am happy to say…not days,
and while I suppose I still have a full head of hair,
it is thinning, and I have to admit receding
since I was 14.
I like to sleep, but sleeping alone sucks. So does eating alone,
or being sick alone, or being alone alone, or hating
someone. Sex alone is no fun. Well, maybe a little fun,
but much better with another. I so want to ask,
“Do your panties go in the same load as my underwear?
What about the powder blue thong you wore last night?”
Ha!
I am a constant companion to misery, find succor in sorrow,
not usually the life of the party; I can bring a funeral down.
I’m not good past small talk, and too seldom leave
the house. It takes an event like this to get me out. I’m sarcastic,
loyal, too intelligent for my own good (but among my friends
I am the dumb one), well read, and mostly sane. Oh, and I don’t
dance and I don’t sing.
And...
I want kids. They’re so cool, not at all like real people.
Only a heartless bastard can hate kids, only a soulless
person not want them. Picket fence, chicken in the pot,
car in the garage, cats or a dog (not both), PTA,
play dates, and our drunken friends drinking the last
of our best wine. This is what I what I dream of,
this is my fantasy.
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