You are trying to strike a delicate balance between sinister and curmudgeonly. I am more interested in watching reruns of Oprah. It's true what they say, you always hurt the ones you love.
Some days I wish I could eat more chocolate, other days I wish I owned more glue, and still other days I pretend my pillow is a cat and I pet it and try to feed it cat food to no avail. Everyday you sit at the table, carefully observing me, furiously taking notes.
You spend a lot of evenings shadow boxing. Normally, I would have no issues with this, except you have started solely boxing and pummeling all of my shadow puppets.
I had a single hair growing out of my forehead. It was an eyesore to say the least and a reminder to me of my advancing age and receding hairline. One morning I started pulling it slowly, little by little. After a few minutes I looked up at the mirror and noticed I was bald - just like the time you got a thread from your sweater stuck in the door, except that you were able to go buy a new sweater and I now look like a hairless freak, but aside from that it is exactly the same.
As we are taking our stallions out for a trot, you state that on the outside we are essentially the same, but on the inside only one of us glows with an internal light that shines so brightly. I would have tried to guess who, but you keep interrupting my thoughts by clearing your throat loudly and pointing at yourself.
You ooze charisma through your texts to me. Each message carries so much feeling and portrays you as this vibrant and immense character and I wait, each day, with baited breath, for the next eloquent message to appear and provide me hope and excitement for the future. The juxtaposition between the person I envision behind these texts and the one who has me constantly peeling potatoes, shucking oysters and scrubbing calluses is mind-numbing to say the least.
I am writing postcards in advance to you in the event that I travel to Spain someday. I am telling you all about my expected incredible times without you. Tears are welling up and starting to fall upon the cards when I think about how much I will miss you. And then I notice that it has started to rain and that I am not crying at all. Then I look more closely and realize that I am inside, sitting by the window, watching it rain and you are holding our watering can above me pouring water on my head.
You are such a disappointment to everyone who knows you. First you were asked to do the simple task of cleaning the house, but you couldn't do that. Then, I asked you to walk the dog, and you didn't do that. Finally, I asked you a number of rapid-fire skill-testing questions, but you couldn't even answer one correctly. Then I remembered that it was sound-proof glass.
I am throwing caution to the wind and you keep trying to catch it.
You have selected today to air your grievances. I am sitting in the audience clapping as loudly and enthusiastically as I can. "Bravo!" I exclaim. "Bravo, bravo, bravo!" It really is a good, grievance-airing performance for the ages. Rightly or wrongly, you have put those people in their place, which was your New Year's resolution.
I am travelling in the Mt. Everest region of Nepal and have infiltrated the ranks of the sherpa. Tomorrow we begin our ascent of the snowy behemoth. You are sitting at home anxiously awaiting my next correspondence, and when it arrives, you sit, shaking your head as you had actually told me to increase my shakra. Just goes to show, never pass messages via "broken telephone".
You are constantly all up in my face about math. It's all like "add this, sucka", "you can't handle that quotient, boy" and "Times?!?!?! You want some freakin' times?!?!?". I have never understood, I don't think I ever will, why you get so aggressive and gangsta when it comes to math.
You are watching and re-watching the same scene in your favourite movie again and again, and it is making you weep uncontrollably. Tears flow from your red, puffy eyes. There is an endless stream of gloopy stuff that dribbles from your nose. Your hair is a stringy, beehive of a mess. I look at you and fall in love once again.
You spend a lot of evenings shadow boxing. Normally, I would have no issues with this, except you have started solely boxing and pummeling all of my shadow puppets.
I had a single hair growing out of my forehead. It was an eyesore to say the least and a reminder to me of my advancing age and receding hairline. One morning I started pulling it slowly, little by little. After a few minutes I looked up at the mirror and noticed I was bald - just like the time you got a thread from your sweater stuck in the door, except that you were able to go buy a new sweater and I now look like a hairless freak, but aside from that it is exactly the same.
As we are taking our stallions out for a trot, you state that on the outside we are essentially the same, but on the inside only one of us glows with an internal light that shines so brightly. I would have tried to guess who, but you keep interrupting my thoughts by clearing your throat loudly and pointing at yourself.
I am sorry! I can tell I offended you when I made those derisive comments about your guitar strumming that I thought was too post-modern when you were aiming for flamenco. I know you are annoyed and don't even want to look at me, but did you really have to install miniture curtains on your glasses and keep them perpetually closed whenever I come around.
You are running down the road at night, thinking of all of the wild geese making their way south for the winter and hoping that your lasagna was not burning in the oven. Coincidentally, I am baking wild goose for dinner in the oven and daydreaming about pieces of lasagna that not only are running down the road, but they also strangely remind me of a saucier, cheesier and more delicious-smelling version of you.
You are running down the road at night, thinking of all of the wild geese making their way south for the winter and hoping that your lasagna was not burning in the oven. Coincidentally, I am baking wild goose for dinner in the oven and daydreaming about pieces of lasagna that not only are running down the road, but they also strangely remind me of a saucier, cheesier and more delicious-smelling version of you.
I often use my fingers to count and you wonder why I limit myself to the digits on my hands when my toes would probably love to be included. I nod my head slowly, with a dramatically arched left eyebrow and a look of disgust on my face. If I didn't think you'd notice, judge or comment, I'd use my fingers to count all of the ways you annoy me.
You ooze charisma through your texts to me. Each message carries so much feeling and portrays you as this vibrant and immense character and I wait, each day, with baited breath, for the next eloquent message to appear and provide me hope and excitement for the future. The juxtaposition between the person I envision behind these texts and the one who has me constantly peeling potatoes, shucking oysters and scrubbing calluses is mind-numbing to say the least.
I am writing postcards in advance to you in the event that I travel to Spain someday. I am telling you all about my expected incredible times without you. Tears are welling up and starting to fall upon the cards when I think about how much I will miss you. And then I notice that it has started to rain and that I am not crying at all. Then I look more closely and realize that I am inside, sitting by the window, watching it rain and you are holding our watering can above me pouring water on my head.
You are such a disappointment to everyone who knows you. First you were asked to do the simple task of cleaning the house, but you couldn't do that. Then, I asked you to walk the dog, and you didn't do that. Finally, I asked you a number of rapid-fire skill-testing questions, but you couldn't even answer one correctly. Then I remembered that it was sound-proof glass.
I am throwing caution to the wind and you keep trying to catch it.
You have selected today to air your grievances. I am sitting in the audience clapping as loudly and enthusiastically as I can. "Bravo!" I exclaim. "Bravo, bravo, bravo!" It really is a good, grievance-airing performance for the ages. Rightly or wrongly, you have put those people in their place, which was your New Year's resolution.
I am travelling in the Mt. Everest region of Nepal and have infiltrated the ranks of the sherpa. Tomorrow we begin our ascent of the snowy behemoth. You are sitting at home anxiously awaiting my next correspondence, and when it arrives, you sit, shaking your head as you had actually told me to increase my shakra. Just goes to show, never pass messages via "broken telephone".
You are constantly all up in my face about math. It's all like "add this, sucka", "you can't handle that quotient, boy" and "Times?!?!?! You want some freakin' times?!?!?". I have never understood, I don't think I ever will, why you get so aggressive and gangsta when it comes to math.
I have finally swam in the ocean. It is so big and fresh and I just feel so alive. And to think I wasted so much time in your little wading pool that you called "the sea". True, you gave me free ice cream and gave me all of the pats on my head I could have ever wanted, but was it too much to ask for you to be truthful with me at least when it comes to bodies of water?
You sit down across from me at breakfast, smiling. I look up from my bowl of cereal and after a moment, smile back. You glance away and then quickly and vividly lock eyes with me with even a larger smile. I momentarily lose my breath and look down, only to rebound with a smile for the ages. You take a ferocious bite of your toast with the energy of tiger and then throw me a smile that literally knocks me off my seat. I lay on the ground, dazed and confused, but I find a source of inner strength that I was previously unaware of and I rise, like a nearly vanquished warrior, and unveil the smile to end all smiles. A smile that "He" would have made. A smile that other smiles would only hope to be like when they grow up. A smile that is so much a smile that it is almost not a smile. And then we go to the park to throw a Frisbee.
I stand back and admire the lettuce I have grown in my garden. You are significantly less impressed, but then again, you have always been totally underwhelmed by lettuce.
You sit down across from me at breakfast, smiling. I look up from my bowl of cereal and after a moment, smile back. You glance away and then quickly and vividly lock eyes with me with even a larger smile. I momentarily lose my breath and look down, only to rebound with a smile for the ages. You take a ferocious bite of your toast with the energy of tiger and then throw me a smile that literally knocks me off my seat. I lay on the ground, dazed and confused, but I find a source of inner strength that I was previously unaware of and I rise, like a nearly vanquished warrior, and unveil the smile to end all smiles. A smile that "He" would have made. A smile that other smiles would only hope to be like when they grow up. A smile that is so much a smile that it is almost not a smile. And then we go to the park to throw a Frisbee.
I stand back and admire the lettuce I have grown in my garden. You are significantly less impressed, but then again, you have always been totally underwhelmed by lettuce.
You are watching and re-watching the same scene in your favourite movie again and again, and it is making you weep uncontrollably. Tears flow from your red, puffy eyes. There is an endless stream of gloopy stuff that dribbles from your nose. Your hair is a stringy, beehive of a mess. I look at you and fall in love once again.
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