Netflix and chill

come up and see me sometime
want to see my stamp collection
care for a cup of coffee
a nightcap
some weed
save the last dance for me
play Scrabble
arm wrestle
Gone With the Wind
use your bathroom
use your bedroom
Twister
hide and go seek
the basement tapes
vestibular balance
lost in translation
wanna hold your hand
practice salsa
take in a movie
baby, it's cold outside
life is short
do you have AC
work on that report
sand your floors
a spot of tea
read your palm
rub my neck
do yoga
study for the exam
check your cable connection
light my fire
see my vinyl
sing for my supper
taste your carrot cake
gel with gelato

breakup epistle

Dear Self,

This is it. I've had it. We are breaking up. No, that does not mean I am descending to a new or amplified brand of mental illness. Besides, I get confused: Do split personalities have too many selves or not enough of one self? No matter. Doesn't matter. We're not here to argue or debate. There I go again. We. What's with the "we," right? We? Who is we? Who is I? Who is you?

Back to the breakup.

I don't want to be that person anymore. I've grown tired of him. I've reached a point of autonomic fatigue. Anomie without anime.

Don't be so facile or quick to label this depression. Don't be so quick to label it anything.

When did our relationship start to sour?

Hard to say. 

How about pee running down my legs in the gym in kindergarten on the first day of school? No one chided me, not that I recall. I can't remember if they gave me dry clothes. The urine was hot and cinnamonny as it streamed down my left leg, along part of my rear, and onto the shiny waxed wood floors. The gym smelled of lacquer, at least until my contribution.

I was ashamed.

I still wish I hadn't done that.

Not until, what, fifty years later did I discover physical reasons for this voiding.

A voidance. Avoidance.

But that's hardly a reason to break up, you say. And you're right! It's bogus, completely fabricated. Arbitary.

I needed an excuse.

I know, I know, it all seems so rash, if not irrational.

You say, you didn't know, you couldn't tell. Isn't that what they always say about the breakup? "I had no idea. No one told me. If only I had known." Those are the standard lines. I suppose it's more than a little true. I mean, even I didn't see us breaking up.

No worries.

This is officially an amicable divorce. No shit. It really is. What reason would I have for being inamicable?

Oh. The obvious question. What new self am I hooking up with? Who's the lucky rebound self?

Can't answer that.

Come what may.

Que sera sera.

More shall be revealed.

I shall be released.

Sayonara, you ol' selfie.

Anchors aweigh.

Sincerely,

Moi