I woke up for no reason wide awake. My phone said 4:20.
I’m not that kind of girl! I said to my phone.
Am I the only person that does this?
When the piece of carrot I cut falls on the floor I find it and scold it and wash it. When it falls a second time, I decide it has made its decision for treason and I toss it.
I give brief relationships and projected histories to my pens and pencils. They have reunions in my purse after long absences.
Noisiest of my personal belongings are my earrings, who have Disney-like pow-wows over who will be worn next. After all I have about fifty pairs of them, in different strains of about five colors. The black ones get boastful, since they are worn a lot. They aren’t developing turf wars yet though.
The gothic crosses are getting more and more morose. It’s been a long while since the right time came. Not to worry, I tell them. Soon. They languish.
There’s a pink dangle-y pair that’s sort of the Brittany Spears of the bunch. They don’t get much respect from the others. They’re clueless about this, however.
My jades got tucked in my purse for a week. They came back all sea-sick and dusty. One of them got into a liaison with my hairpins. What a scandal.
When one of a pair gets lost, it goes on an adventure. What does it see while it’s been left high atop the financial pile on my coffee table? When I find it and it returns, it tells the others stories, Reports of the Distant Couch. It becomes a big man on campus. Yes certain earrings are not feminine. That was the studded hoop.
The blue glittering swirled clip-ons beg silence of the others.
They belonged to my mother — I gave them to her as a child and took them back when she passed away. They have barely been worn. I pick them up now and then, contemplate wearing them, fear their pinch, long for their gaudiness, put them down. I visit with them, think of my mother (who never really liked them). I wept over them once. The others are very impressed with the behaviour the blue glitttering ones can pull from me. They command great respect.
Once I mentioned all this to a bunch of people who were talking about their own peculiar mental habits. I thought this fit right in. But when I mentioned it, they all just …. stopped.
I have this way of stopping people like that.
Perhaps that ’s why then, I thought. I have trouble liking people without this talent of anthropomorphic empathy. Only my artist friends seem to be unfazed by this.
It’s like an old TV show about James Thurber, My World and Welcome to It. He was one of the most spare cartoonists and funny people. His house would talk to him, as did his dog; mother-in-laws would appear out of walls, etc. It was quite logical to me and made me laugh. The show didn’t last long.
Most shows that make me laugh don’t last long. But they always get awards.
Where are the people that are giving awards when I am here handing out the Oscars of time to my baubles? What would make them arrive?
What do you think Floor, should I get a red carpet?
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you know you should write for WB. This would be a perfect episode. They need a comeback anyway. All their actors have fled for scanky R cameos or off marrying the lapdogs of Spielberg.
Whenever I set an object down, I point at it and say, “Stay!” The only people who ever thought it was funny were the mentally challenged people who used to follow the band around. (I kid you not.)