Vignettes

His name is "Alex."
I had a rather brilliant idea for a poem tonight at Poetasters. Provided all goes well, it just might premiere at the Valentine's Day reading. There's just one little problem: The poem requires a love interest, or at least a crush, and I am completely without. Considering my life at present, this is not surprising: my male enrollment of my two classes this semester is composed entirely of either marrieds or uncrushables at the present time. And by uncrushable I mean peroxide blonds, pompous, snap-you-like-a-twig, etc. Students, of course, are off limits. My best guy friends are my best guy friends. And almost every other male I know exists primarily in cyberspace. So, no crush for eg, although I am taking suggestions.
I announced this tonight--that I need a crush. To finish my poem. No other reason. And LauLau announced that there's this "goldenish haired" guy on campus who she sees frequently and crushes on. "His name is 'Alex'," she said, complete with air quotes. "One day we'll meet and I'll ask if his name is Alex and it will be." "And then," continues Keller, "people will stop and start singing, 'I've seen that smile somewhere before.'" Keller pauses. "I want to be in the chorus. Can I share in your moment?"

Q-sack
I missed the chance of a lifetime. But it was a chance of a lifetime that I didn't want. Does it still count?

I want to die.
Actually, I don't. But I find myself thinking this sometimes. And then tonight I got another reminder of why I don't want to die.
We have mice at our house. I think I told the mouse-in-the-rubbish-bin story. Well, after that night, we put out D-Con, which is supposed to be a humane way of killing mice. (If humane means not having to deal with their tiny dead bodies.) It's a poison that the mice eat. It makes them thirsty, so they go outside looking for water. The water activates the poison and then they die. At least, that's what supposed to happen. Tonight I came home to find a mouse next to the short flight of stairs between the kitchen and the living room. I personally don't want to die on my side with my legs and arms sticking out in front of me and my tail curled towards my feet. I also don't want my brother-in-law to have to pick me up and carry me out to the trash can.

Metaphors
Actually, they're not metaphors. They're analogies or allegories or something. My therapist likes to tell me these metaphors to help me understand that I have no control over my life. He's told me the vacuum metaphor, the chess board metaphor, the gun metaphor, the bus metaphor, etc. I thank him, and then remind him that this is the reason I come in once a week to talk with him.

InValid
This didn't happen today or even this week. It happened many, many years ago, when editorgirl was just a little girl. She read a book and found a word that she liked: invalid. She figured out what it meant and waited for the perfect opportunity to use it. The opportunity came at dinner one night. But instead of saying invalid, she pronounced it in-valid. Which made perfect sense to her. (Still does, as a matter of fact.)
I feel inValid.

pamplemousse
I am addicted to pamplemousee (pink grapefruit) Mentos. Damn you, Macey's, and your 3/$1 deals!