We'll Play Some Old Records

Lovely, what do you think of me? You don't know me all that well, I suppose. Oh, we've talked and laughed and shared our secrets, but what does all that really say about a person? You would argue that it says quite a lot, I'm sure.

You have the most enchanting eyes. Have I ever told you that? I should. They're clear and bright, like you. You're dirty, darling, and you can match wits with the best of them, but you have no venom. I like that.

Now, I've gotten off topic: What is it you think of me? I think you think quite highly of me. Funny. I wouldn't. But then, I know so much more about myself than you do. I have half a mind to lay it all out before you. Or better yet, prostrate myself and let you do it yourself. Dissect me; really get in there; pull it all out. Dirty your hands with my inner self.

The strangest part is, I'm not all that bad. Not, at least, by this society's standards. But yours? Oh, sweetheart, I fall painfully short. I wish you knew. I wish I had the courage to tell you.

What would you make of the thoughts that have been racing through my mind, of the plans I've constructed for my life? Oh, don't get me wrong, you wouldn't leave. Things would be different for us, though. You wouldn't think so highly of me anymore, and I'm not sure I can live with that.

If I let my desire consume me, well, I'd drag you down with me. I'd sit with you on this sinking ship and laugh as we drowned. I want to touch you. I want you to fall asleep next to me. I want to watch you and know that I've won.

It's not about satiating the flesh, love. It's about bringing you down to my level. I want to squeeze you until all the goodness runs out of those stunning eyes. If you can be broken, then I can't be that bad. I can't be that bad.

Don't hate me. I'd never do this. I love you too much. I love you more than I hate myself.

If Alice Found Her Rabbit Hole

Alice never knew
(But I do)
The potential of that rabbit hole
All the fun that could've been had
If she abandoned all sense
And let herself go

The caterpillar, she did not like
She should have
(I know this, because)
He can share what's in his pipe
And bring about those strange delights
That one most often chases down
Rabbit Holes
In search of

Or that Cheshire Smile--
Her naivety shows--
That can so much more than loom
Out of the dark
(In a frightening way)
With potential to work that
Twisted, Crazy, Rabbit Hole
Magic on her softer bits

Well Alice may have never known
All the secrets of that rabbit hole
But I do
And I wish I could see
How far I could go
(While still being me)

If I turned to the wind and said
"Take my sense
I don't need it anymore
With my rabbit hole friends"
And threw that sense away
Away into the wind
Would I miss it
Or find
It's (really) more fun this way?

But rabbit holes are tricky things
(They're full of wonder but)
They're deep
And if I jump right down this rabbit hole
Will I find my way back
Or will I find I must stay?

"Now, Alice," You say
"Now she was fine
So you will be too
So step in line"
But Alice was blind
(Unaware of the fact)
That Rabbit Holes

Are slinky, sexy, dangerous
Places for little girls
To lose themselves
(In mystery
And Thrills)
To pretend, for a day
That they can be someone else

And if I were to follow her
(To that place underground)
I expect that I'd far too much enjoy
All those lures of the Rabbit Hole
To ever much care
If I remained lost or was found

To Whom It May Conern

Excuse me, condescending assholes: You have no right to speak to me the way you do. You are rude, you are nearsighted, and, frankly, stupid. You have no basis for the things you say. They are predicated on ignorance and insensitivity.

Next time, before you open your whiny mouth, think, "What will I gain from acting like a superior asshat in this situation?"

The answer is: nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Want to know why? Because I've already beaten you. I am so far ahead in every pertinent category that no matter how much bullshit you spew at me, you can never catch up. You are not more competent than I am; you are not more aware than I am; and you sure as hell aren't smarter than I am.

Perhaps you should consider the possibility--and I know this will sound crazy--that I am not the slow one in any given situation. Perhaps if there has been a miscommunication, misunderstanding, or something similar, it is you who has caused it. And before you mention that I am the only one who does not seem to [understand the way you speak/follow you logic/care about the tabloids/follow a strict diet/etc.], and therefore I must be the one in the wrong . . . no, sweetheart, that's not how it works. There are some stark differences in our backgrounds and cultures, and it would be ridiculous to assume that I would connect to anything and everything you offer up. (Moreover, you would not last a day with my people. You would embarrass yourself to no end. However, we would have better manners than to openly mock you for it.)

You are the problem. I do not say this to your face because I very much doubt it would have any effect on the way you conduct yourself. You are self-absorbed and eternally bent on being right. The day you take someone else's feelings and suggestions into account is the day hell freezes over.

My only consolation is that I will be subjected to you for a very short time, but you have to live with yourself forever.

I Still Think About You

by Zindy S.D. Nielsen

You hardly even look at me anymore, and it kills me. I know I was the one who made the first move, but I wouldn't have said a damn thing if I new you'd react this way.

You realize it's almost exactly a year since our relationship began to die? God, this month. The whole damn month was one big emotional hailstorm. I didn't want to hurt you, and you didn't want to let go. That did it more than anything else, I think. Quel suprise.

Still, I wasn't the one who drove the final nail in the coffin. That was all you. You drew away, and drew away, and kept moving until we lost all contact. Why? Because you were hurt? You could've told me. We could've worked something out.

I'm angry at you for being closed off, and I'm angry at you for leaving me. And I miss you. And I love you. I love you so damn much it hurts, and I cry, and I wish I could talk to you again--for real, not this crap we suffer through now.

The thing that hurts the most is that this is what did it. It wasn't distance. It wasn't a change it social circles. It wasn't anything that should have wrecked us so bad. It makes me think--because I didn't let you feel me up? I get eight years of my life ripped away from me because I wouldn't put out? Because I was in the wrong relationship, and you were too damn selfish to respect that?

I automatically assume the worst. That's what I loved most about you though: You knew that, and so you never did anything that would prompt me to speculate. You were always brutally honest with me. God, you were amazing. One of the best things in my life.

Why did that change? I guess the transition was too much. That's all it is, though--a guess. You never told me anything. For seven months I felt like I was running around with a mannequin. "Run" would be the wrong word, though, come to think of it. You can't run when you're stuck on a pedestal.

I stare at your picture on my phone. I think about you every single day. I'm completely inappropriate, the worst kind of stalker, but I can't help myself. I want to to come back to me, and I want us to love each other like we used to. Do you remember?

I never told you, but I used to have nightmares. In my dreams, I'd be stuck with you in a room with you, and you were trying to make love to me. I felt so disgusted and forlorn that I'd hang myself with your tie. The dream came back so often that one day I had to wake up. I couldn't attribute it to an overactive, self-sabotaging subconscious anymore.

I wish, with all my heart, that I could've wanted you like you wanted me. I wish we could be perfect, and beautiful, and live happy, fulfilled lives, never taking our eyes off each other.

I wish I could say I'm sorry: I was an idiot, I was a jerk; I was selfish and insensitive; please forgive me, I love you so much.

I love you so fucking much. Why don't you love me?

Excuse Me, Boy Who Gave Me a Flower?

Is that really you? Wow, small world. Yeah, yeah, I've been great. Going to school, reading, spending time on the internet . . . and, you know, going to lots of parties with drugs and hookers and stuff. And yourself? Oh, how lovely for you.

Look, I don't mean to be forward, but I need to get something off my chest with you. Retract your hand. I didn't mean that.

You see, Flower Boy, I've been thinking about you lately. You want to know why? Because whatever we could've had was ruined by your lack of balls.

You're right, that was kind of harsh -- I'm sorry. No I'm not.

The thing is, you were the first person who's ever given me flowers. Why would you even bring that up? Yes, I know it was technically a single flower, but dontcha think it helps your case if we pretend it was more? Imagination is a rainbow.

But I digress.

Point being, we could've had something, because I was dazzled by your froufrou card and brightly colored vegetation. Cross my heart, you could've been a dead ringer for Gary Busey and I would've fallen all over you -- because you gave me my first flower.

Really, are you twelve? Not that flower. I'm trying to have an adult conversation here, stunted-romanticist to stunted-romanticist. Hang with me.

But you blew it, turtledove. You blew it because it was anonymous. You gave me an anonymous present. At first this didn't bother me, because I was certain you would identify yourself at a later date. Well, as my French professor would say, "J'ai eu tort." I was wronger than Kanye West at the VMA's.

Well, yes, I know Kanye was wrong as in "improper" and I was wrong as in "incorrect" but I was just trying to be funny. You know what, no one cares what you think about Taylor Swift's feelings. Can we just move on? I have a conclusion here I'd like to make.

I don't know what you felt for me, anonymous-flower-boy, but I do know this: whatever it was, you should've told me. Giving me that pretty flower and then letting it wilt without me ever knowing your name is like writing your girlfriend a break-up note on a molding Cheez-It -- it's dirty and upsetting.

I've moved on now, AFB, to someone who isn't an emotional coward, to someone who has the drive to go after what he wants without dropping cryptic gifty hints before class then leaving me to hang. I'm happy, and I'm sure you are too, but I can't help but thinking about it some nights when I'm fighting sleep.

Who knows: Maybe you'd have changed the course of my unborn children's future if you'd just grown a pair.

Sorry, that's my order -- I've gotta fly. Aw, don't look at me like. Remember, it takes less muscles to smile!