Come in, why don’t you, to this great and crazy imagination that I call Narnia. Just kidding, you’re stepping into my school for a second. First let me again give a shout out to Viva, who so kindly is gracing us with the multimedia element of this week’s posts. If you want to see more (which you do), check her out on this button. But I digress, and I was just about to impress upon you the brilliance of the place that pays me. All week, we’ve been collecting funds for charities and offering fun in exchange. The main event today was a variety/talent show that was worth way more than the asking price of $0.00. Maybe even a whole few decimal places more. There were circus caliber sideshow acts, like onion eating competitions between seniors and freshmen and dance offs that looked like spastic cheetahs trying to keep cool atop boiling lava. And the musical talent was, dare I say it, adequate. Im joking only because these kids (world class drummers, concert pianists, rubic’s cube solvers, and Adeles in the making) are so impressive they make me thankful I didn’t apply to college their years.
But I’m rambling. Now to the reason you came here in the first place, the poetry (either that or you thought the photo was pretty. Either way, thank you). I wrote this piece today to present at the talent show. I wasn’t booed off stage:
Big Bad Relationship
Snow white and I have this pact.
We decided, after her last mishap with
a hapless prince,
and over a half gallon of
Jimmy Fallon flavored
Ben and Jerry’s ice cream,
that we would forgo royalty.
Too much inbreeding, we reasoned.
Instead, we agreed to
set each other up
with a lucky friend, for what we hoped was
a blend of all our fairy tale fantasies
that would write a happily ever end to our
Snow had but one requirement:
No short men. She had spent enough
time with dwarves to keep them at arm’s distance,
insisting that she couldn’t date a man whose
personality was written in his name,
who’s too one dimensional,
always lazy, or emo or ticklish,
like an Elmo doll without the ‘off switch’
So I sifted through my list of contacts and Facebook friends,
eventually ruling out the men who spent their Wednesdays
posing for profile pictures. Everyone knows it’s
a bad sign to spend so much time
in front of mirrors, especially while
smearing duck face expressions on an iPhone;
just ask the bag of bones who used to be her stepmother.
But again, Ms. White is picky,
I mean, I ain’t saying she’s a gold digger,
but she ain’t messing with no schoolteachers.
So after weeks of facebook stalking,
which isn’t creepy
if its for a good cause,
I found an honest, down to earth fella that might
satisfy my little Bella;
he went by the name of Jack.
A beanstalk braggart, he was mad stacked
with the swagger of golden eggs,
and after a few too many gingerbreads,
they wound up wedding in Las Vegas.
Happy ending indeed.
As for me, the wolfish bachelor, the story isn’t as sappy.
My blind date had a laundry list of
prerequisites longer than Pinocchio’s teenage years.
No talking about her age
nor reading Mother Goose’s stories about her god mothers.
No playing with sewing machines.
She said she was worried about falling for another one of those needles.
You know the type: charming, tall, thin and completely blinged out.
Its one of those relationships that began with the
largest silver lining, but it turned out
her prince was just a prick that left her
drowsy and tired of it all.
Or worse, looking for needles in haystacks.
That’s when she fell into habitual drinking
and ended up lost in wonderland.
and how we ended up standing awkwardly close
talking about ‘feelings’
She was crazy indeed, damaged,
with narcolepsy to boot.
but with my checkered history eating
strumpets in the wilderness,
who am I to be choosy?
We’re all just looking for someone to write into
our fairy tales, whether princess, hansel or gretel,
and as long as they don’t fail
the supervillain test,
they should be worth a chapter at least.
Unless of course they don’t believe