[while squirming face down on a bed of nails, pining for the day when you could jam a fist full of candy-coated narcotics into your mouth, you pat yourself on your stiff-as-a-board shoulders, and rethink the situation.]
you call your neurologist.
you are hysterical. but with your dramatic, trembling admission of defeat, he refuses you entrance into the theatre of anxiety and self-pity. he focuses the narrative on perseverance and patience, roping you off from the world of apple-tossing naysayers and lifts you back up into the balcony. into the best seat in the house.
[with a little more nortriptyline.]
you get mauled by a thai woman.
with balletic grace, he reaches for your water bottle. nimbly, he fills and caps it, pirouetting it back upon the desk. then springing, not one, but two, of the fortifying, complimentary bananas into your purse. his eyes twinkle with gallantry. your lips twitch with surprise.
[and your feet float right out the door.]
you wink at your shiny, new galpal "gravy".
gliding over to your ride, the massage's blissful hum's grown louder; the din burns, buzzes inside your brain like a bees' nest poked wide. an apologetic call from behind; the prefacing, "why can't we be friends?" tone in his voice.
"i am not following you. i am walking to the volkswagen in front of you."
your heart softens, if not your head. and you squawk an equally repentant laugh. and your mouths; minds open to a conversation about the mom and pop thai massage place and the virtues of eastern medicine.
and you think, it must be hard for a man to be chivalrous in these times. in these times of kardashian ass, big 'n rich sass and dumbmancan'tcook-tv-trash.
[in these times of the toddakincrash('nburn)]
three amigos rode in to glendale today. and rode away leaving me with a warm, fuzzy feeling.
no battle of the sexes.
or battle of the exes.
[lay down your sword.]
simply no battle at all.
No comments:
Post a Comment