The inciting incidents collect like fat droplets of rain water.
They matter more than the opinion of your most trusted imaginary friend.
The sounds of the memories are on reverb, audio turned up high;
Every movement of the lips, the mortifying words they delivered, is visible in slow motion.
I shy away from the memory, as I would the tastebud-souring flavor of a lemon.
It makes me feel like a slug, wiggling in the slimy dirt, letting itself get stepped on over and over again.
This slug lives in a heap of compost that smells worse than cooking tomatoes.
Embarrassment tastes more bitter than birch syrup, feeling almost as sticky too.
"Larry" will probably never forgive me after that conversation;
I should never have texted him about the incident at "Carter Hall."
It’s hard to remember exactly how badly I misspoke.
There’s a fog and a dampening of sound as I attempt to replay it.
In any case, it happened and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The words came out of my mouth and they’re staying there for good.
Why did I have to say “Hey, wazzuuuup” like that?
Why couldn’t I have left it at “Hi” like a normal person?
When you say something like that, whomever you’re talking to will immediately know that you are an idiot,
and their opinion of you will never change.
Texting is so complicated.
The dangerous world of social interaction.
Playing music has the ability to limit your capacity for actual speech.
I crawled into his phone and tried to delete the message before he could read it,
But ya girl couldn’t really do that even if she knew where his phone was right now.
She will see that phone again, alright,
But it will be long after the message was received.
The meaning behind the curdled intent has become so convoluted it is impossible to remember its original purpose.
All we can do is replay the incident over and over, hoping to find faults that were already there.
Maazel tov!
Even the chairs in the room speak with sarcastic deprecation at such a cringeworthy display.
Slugs roll in dirt, suffering forever at the hands of oppressive tyrants
Who deem that stepping on them is a better fate
Than leaving them in a happy pile of stinking compost,
A location which would truly be an excellent host.
They matter more than the opinion of your most trusted imaginary friend.
The sounds of the memories are on reverb, audio turned up high;
Every movement of the lips, the mortifying words they delivered, is visible in slow motion.
I shy away from the memory, as I would the tastebud-souring flavor of a lemon.
It makes me feel like a slug, wiggling in the slimy dirt, letting itself get stepped on over and over again.
This slug lives in a heap of compost that smells worse than cooking tomatoes.
Embarrassment tastes more bitter than birch syrup, feeling almost as sticky too.
"Larry" will probably never forgive me after that conversation;
I should never have texted him about the incident at "Carter Hall."
It’s hard to remember exactly how badly I misspoke.
There’s a fog and a dampening of sound as I attempt to replay it.
In any case, it happened and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The words came out of my mouth and they’re staying there for good.
Why did I have to say “Hey, wazzuuuup” like that?
Why couldn’t I have left it at “Hi” like a normal person?
When you say something like that, whomever you’re talking to will immediately know that you are an idiot,
and their opinion of you will never change.
Texting is so complicated.
The dangerous world of social interaction.
Playing music has the ability to limit your capacity for actual speech.
I crawled into his phone and tried to delete the message before he could read it,
But ya girl couldn’t really do that even if she knew where his phone was right now.
She will see that phone again, alright,
But it will be long after the message was received.
The meaning behind the curdled intent has become so convoluted it is impossible to remember its original purpose.
All we can do is replay the incident over and over, hoping to find faults that were already there.
Maazel tov!
Even the chairs in the room speak with sarcastic deprecation at such a cringeworthy display.
Slugs roll in dirt, suffering forever at the hands of oppressive tyrants
Who deem that stepping on them is a better fate
Than leaving them in a happy pile of stinking compost,
A location which would truly be an excellent host.
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