Well, are you all tired of wandering through my introspective little whiny-pants ramblings yet? Because I have a stack of bad, angsty teenage poetry I can post if you aren't. Don't tempt me on this one, I've done it before. Oh, except when I did it before I had about six readers on a really good day, so you probably all missed that. Too bad, it was fun, in a totally humiliating kind of way.
I actually pulled out my bad and embarrassing (and, well, huge) poetry notebook a couple of weeks ago when I was cleaning out some bookshelves in the basement, and there was a dead cricket in it. I regretted for a moment that I wasn't 16 anymore, when I would have taken that as some sort of sign and written an incomprehensible sonnet about it. Something like "on dead crickets and woe" or "life is dry and dusty like a desiccated cricket carcass." It's always good when you can work "carcass" into a poem.
(I must remember to add "embarrassing poetry notebook" to the list of things I need to destroy or discard before Mia gets old enough to go snooping in my closets. Or destroy and discard. Or shred, burn and scatter the ashes across several continents. No, I don't want to tell you what else is on that list.)
I swear I had a point when I started this, but I can't remember what it was. Possibly something about expectations versus reality, but that doesn't sound very funny, so it can't have been that. See, I'm exhausted and still trying to get over the fact that my darling precious brilliant little monkey Mia pooped on the rug, and also now I am entranced by the idea of sponsoring a dead cricket sonnet writing contest. Surely there must be some of you who have seven rhyming iambic pentameter couplets about carcasses in you just bursting to get out. Yes? No? Ok then, nevermind. (You guys just aren't any fun today, did you know that?)
You know, when I got home from whatever it was I was out doing tonight, I remarked to Chris that Mia almost never wakes up in the evenings anymore. Naturally, she woke up about two minutes later. Chris got her back to sleep, but she just started her singing again and it's my turn, so we will all have to just wonder where in the heck I might have been going with this. I truly hope the suspense does not kill you.
(Oh, first person to send me that cricket carcass sonnet will get a kiss full on the lips. I mean, unless you would rather have a cd or something.