The “I Don’t Have Time To Post” Post
The good news is, I just landed a very lucrative freelance gig writing some quirky weird stuff for a certain cable network. The bad news is, in the next 36 hours I have to actually produce said quirky weird stuff, in addition to doing my regular job, and I should probably sleep and take a shower at some point, too. Bottom line: I don’t have time to write an actual post.
So instead I’ll show you a little short story I wrote some time ago. (Not a poem. It’s bad form to say “I write poetry” these days, because people assume you mean this pointless free-verse whining about how you’re so sensitive that you can’t even look at a dead grass clipping without thinking of some horrible metaphor concerning human mortality, and I cannot stand that sort of thing. So I never write poetry; I write bitchy short stories that just happen to rhyme. Also, I have enough problems without being known as “the woman who posts her poetry on her blog.” God, no.)
Just a word, honey
A word about the girl next door—
she makes my life a living hell.
I think she juggles ten-pound weights
but doesn’t do it very well.
I know she doesn’t bathe too much
which probably explains the smell
that permeates throughout this place.
She’ll wander through the halls each night
in search of God knows what, and then
she’ll pounce on all within her sight.
Except, what she sees, isn’t there.
She’ll often try to pick a fight
with all the voices in her head
and scream (while outside in the hall)
“Stop thinking for me! Go away!
You mess with me—I kill you all!”
Then BOOM! She slams against my door
and pictures crash down from my wall.
You see now what my life is like.
She vacuums quarter after three;
all other hours of the night
sound fills the air from her TV
and anytime I cross her path
she screams her random thoughts at me.
My landlord will not break my lease.
So I must live in constant dread
as she breaks lightbulbs in the hall
a single thought pounds through my head:
I cannot take much more of this.
I have a gun. I WANT HER DEAD.
I have tried going to the cops.
They say there’s nothing they can do
unless she tries to murder me
in which case, they say, I can sue.
But otherwise my hands are tied
so that is why I turn to you.
It seems I lack the guts it takes
to carry out my gun-based plan
and that is why I’m dressed like this,
you sexy, gorgeous hunk of man.
You always say you’re here for me
so please, take matters in your hands,
my sweet, my darling one true love.
My life is such a sad affair.
You always say you love me, but
that doesn’t get me anywhere,
I only ask for one small thing—
just knock her off, to show you care.
The good news is, I just landed a very lucrative freelance gig writing some quirky weird stuff for a certain cable network. The bad news is, in the next 36 hours I have to actually produce said quirky weird stuff, in addition to doing my regular job, and I should probably sleep and take a shower at some point, too. Bottom line: I don’t have time to write an actual post.
So instead I’ll show you a little short story I wrote some time ago. (Not a poem. It’s bad form to say “I write poetry” these days, because people assume you mean this pointless free-verse whining about how you’re so sensitive that you can’t even look at a dead grass clipping without thinking of some horrible metaphor concerning human mortality, and I cannot stand that sort of thing. So I never write poetry; I write bitchy short stories that just happen to rhyme. Also, I have enough problems without being known as “the woman who posts her poetry on her blog.” God, no.)
Just a word, honey
A word about the girl next door—
she makes my life a living hell.
I think she juggles ten-pound weights
but doesn’t do it very well.
I know she doesn’t bathe too much
which probably explains the smell
that permeates throughout this place.
She’ll wander through the halls each night
in search of God knows what, and then
she’ll pounce on all within her sight.
Except, what she sees, isn’t there.
She’ll often try to pick a fight
with all the voices in her head
and scream (while outside in the hall)
“Stop thinking for me! Go away!
You mess with me—I kill you all!”
Then BOOM! She slams against my door
and pictures crash down from my wall.
You see now what my life is like.
She vacuums quarter after three;
all other hours of the night
sound fills the air from her TV
and anytime I cross her path
she screams her random thoughts at me.
My landlord will not break my lease.
So I must live in constant dread
as she breaks lightbulbs in the hall
a single thought pounds through my head:
I cannot take much more of this.
I have a gun. I WANT HER DEAD.
I have tried going to the cops.
They say there’s nothing they can do
unless she tries to murder me
in which case, they say, I can sue.
But otherwise my hands are tied
so that is why I turn to you.
It seems I lack the guts it takes
to carry out my gun-based plan
and that is why I’m dressed like this,
you sexy, gorgeous hunk of man.
You always say you’re here for me
so please, take matters in your hands,
my sweet, my darling one true love.
My life is such a sad affair.
You always say you love me, but
that doesn’t get me anywhere,
I only ask for one small thing—
just knock her off, to show you care.
posted by Jennifer Abel at 11:13 AM
4 Comments:
What the hell is wrong with this program? According to my "info" page this post only appeared once, not three times. I'm going to try to make the other two disappear.
Dammit, I do NOT have time for this today.
Jennifer,
I was surprised to to see you took my advice so soon and threw in a shower mention.
In your photo you look like a woman who could entice a man to commit murder.
Thank you, Nostar. Now that the program has fixed itself, my first comment makes no sense whatsoever.
Oh, well. I really need to get to work on this project. I'll talk to y'all later.
I like the -ahem- story. Sort of a Shel Silverstien in a pissy mood feel.
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