folding laundry in the dark;

collecting and
hanging bits of tiny underwear because
you shouldn't can't put elastic things in the dryer
      says mum
or rather she said maybe 12 years ago and
I haven't dried a bra since.
cold-darks warm-whites
never buy hotdogs that aren't
     all beef.
scratch diamonds on glass and
pearls on your teeth.
wash your hands after
raw meat and thrift shopping.
The most practical thing is
the one you're best at.
Never been wrong before;
this can't be any different.

Ode to Bill gates, Ron Howard, and Stephen Hawking.

I realize I just tweeted this, but holy shit. I ran into the guy (man? Boy? I'm torn as to which noun is appropriate for his grotesque sector of humanity) from the gym yesterday.  The most shallow, stupid human being I have ever encountered. Hands down.

Assertions:
1)  If a person is ugly, he or she will never be hired, because everything in the universe is determined absolutely and exclusively by physical appearance. And if you do not fit the ever-evolving, regionally inconsistent standard, then you are fucked.
           
If that is the case, let this be known: I, Melody Monroe, on this 30th day of March, have the solution to our current economic crisis and the knowledge that will open doors to untold millions of jobs. 

Just stop being ugly, America. It is that fucking simple.


[Additional assertions made by this moron will be continued in a later blog. If I feel like it.]

The weight room

... is NOT the place to pick up chicks. I understand that you're probably feeling extremely macho with all that testosterone doing whatever it is testosterone does. And I realize that the number of women in the room is highly disproportionate to the number of macho-feeling men. That does not give you leave to interrupt my workout. Thanks.

Food Network while angry.

I may not be so old
(certainly not so seasoned)
but if there is one thing I can do,
it is sizzle.
So if you say simmer down
one more time,
the little zest I do yet possess
will gleam with the meaning
of spicy.

young ≠ stupid (nor Smarts) and
years do not equal wisdom;
And since neither of us has
the gift of foresight, the
obligation lies
on both! sides to
(in the very least) listen.

Death has a sweet tooth (and still no mercy)

a cookie is as a
   cookie does and I say
          he does it well.
All he's done is make me smile--
that's more than many males.

He didn't ask for mercy, no
he didn't even flinch. He only asked
"if there's anything, anything I can do--
please, please tell me, Miss."

And so I pondered for, say, half a second
but we both knew it was over so I
snatched him up and heard the cry
"please, maybe a bit slower."

"I've always been a good Cookie;
I'm not ready to meet my maker!"
I'm afraid all efforts are futile--
for I am a hungry baker.

Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to sit down and read this book for more than 4 minutes at a time.

God makes Adam and Eve. Eve has Cain and Abel. Cain kills Abel.  Cain knocks up his wife. All thinking Bible-readers raise one eyebrow, turn back a few pages to see where Cain's wife came from, don't find an answer, and either giggle to themselves or go to Blogger to write about ridiculous scripture.

K-kinda busy.

I really want to write something.  I really, really do.  But I just can't get anything done with Lady Gaga's "Telephone" stuck in my head.

Read it and weep.

Sorry, I don't have anything for you tonight.  But this is bound to make you think a little bit:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/13/education/13texas.html

1030

Every day I feel far
outside this typing box
and yet I'm bound to it;
to express within it
(inquire within to do me
justice)
Required--without proximity--
are the words that only finger tips
[not keys]
can accurately depict.

Every day I hate
      Derrida
(at least, on those days
I feel he's right)
But even I know the solace
in the languid fawns of love's beginning
(not to diminish this
sordid space, for there is
nothing to ease the burn of
longing).

Bumper Sticker.

I saw this on the back of a truck today.  First of all, setting the stupid pun aside, saying "I'll take my money, you keep the change" doesn't actually make any sense. At all.

Second, the fact that guns and religion are among this person's (and apparently these people, if enough bastards wanted this thing  to warrant its mass production) top 3 priorities is simultaneously not only incredibly ironic, but completely and utterly moronic.

Also, this was a white pick-up and the driver was wearing a trucker hat, which alone is enough to hate a guy.

Blue Knights this weekend.  Won't be posting anything new.  Though I guess since 60% of my audience is also in BK, it doesn't matter too much.  Other 40%, have a splendid weekend.

Less of a poem, more of a nostalgic cheddar toss.

I started writing this in my head on the
car drive home but my
damned computer takes so
damned long that I'm sure its all but gone.

I really do want us to go to Russia,
and I have these visions of водка and
if I knew the word for pickles you better
believe it would be here.

I'll probably never learn the language
because for some reason our System sees it fit
to begin teaching foreign tongues
the moment the brain is
too old to catch up.

Russia isn't so far from us, if we just
start the conversation.
Neither am I from you--the only difference is
the ocean.

I know how you love cheese, and
I try to never write so clearly. But
Я тебя люблю. And yes, I
also miss you dearly.

The fear is

that our world, at the grips of two people,
separates us indefinitely and in
more ways than one.

that the language we use
drew us and
in fact, wasn't fact.
We're sharing signifiers
but we tug on endless strings of
signifieds.

that I always do this
(what day is it?).
that I'll always pace
(while counting down)
that I'll always glue myself
and, neckless, feel around.

That there's always
too much more to learn;
and that two people will
strive and claim and excavate
everything. it's simply.
irrefutably.
impossible.

And that line--
that doesn't exist--
it grows longer with every blink.
every beat     beat     beat.

The fear is

 that first sight
is the biggest lie anyone ever told.
And that we believe it because things are
too good to be true.

     that
myself. my  self. this. right here.
I'm either too much or too little.
    that not only is this
body across our world,
but also, possibly,
wrong.

High school.

Back in the day, I blogged twice a week on Myspace (yes, that is how far back we're going down Shitty Memory Lane). I got, quite literally, hundreds of views per week on that baby.

Then Myspace died, and I moved on from an artform people appreciate (comedic blogging) to an artform that died decades ago (no parenthetical explanation needed).

Woe is me, I'm getting less funny and more esoteric as I age. I'm going to die like Emily Dickinson.

Your guess would be high. Mine? None.

The God to whom you've sold your life,
I hope He treats you well;
But the chances of you converting me
are the same as my chances of going to Hell.

Writer's block; here's a sonnet from high school.

overusable words.

It’s worked for so many before me:

our overused language produced

three overusable words

and this overusable way of saying them.

the note I left you took up only four lines

but I left you the full sheet of paper.

the spaces left on the page are the silences

where we both long to speak

those overusable words.

Even now as I write, they are garish and screaming.

I’ll keep leaving half-empty sheets of paper,

and welcome you to fill in the words yourself.

While I cannot convince myself to write them down,

you must realize I am thinking them.

First day of work.

I'm the youngest employee of the store by 10 or 20 years.  But I did get a marriage proposal from a customer, so it can't be that bad, right?

This is worse than

the time I spilled juice
(orange-mango, if you've read it)
all over my poor plum laptop.
She died that day. And with my magic
I revived her--sticky, yes, but
alive.

I'm not sure she'll survive this one.

STOP
melting me like this, or
at least provide fair warning.

Not that this number is significant, but...

I just need 2 more Facebook friends and I'll be at 666.

16.75 hours

is a lot.

I have to write something.

So I'm drawing

             s

all over this page.

they're shimmering all around my ears

and glittering like they have

something to say.

It could be the tip

of my tongue getting ready to break.

tickling; say it

i'll squirm to death; it'll never escape.

I swear I'm drawing a 

_____.

We have weird conversations.

--I have something that will piss you off.
--Oh, show it to me!

fucked-up couple(t).

The first time you rhyme with a word like

  dove

you can be certain that you are not (yet) 

     in

I'm attempting to read the Bible. For fun.

I'm only on page four and I'm already pissed off. How do people read this and think it's good, true, holy, or of any value whatsoever?

God didn't even tell Eve not to eat from the tree. He told Adam, then he made Eve.   For continuity's sake, God should have been more communicative (I wouldn't mind if he'd be more garrulous even now, but that's a whole different blog). Or maybe he shouldn't have lied about what happens when you eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Instead of "you'll die if you eat the damn apple," he could have said "if you eat the apple, I'ma make you push fat babies through your junk, then I'm gunna institute a glass ceiling and a cultural abhorrence for women so that you'll all be fucked for thousands of years."   I think Eve would have listened to that. Plus the book would be a shit-ton less boring to read.

On to page 5!

Passive-aggressive, Part II

That one? From two days ago?
It wasn't about you. I would
never speak so ill of you
(certainly not publicly) and it,
frankly, sucks hurts
what you're ass(you-me)ng.