Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Song for a Crappy Tuesday

she just got real cold allsuvasudden. she wont talk 2 me or evin look over here. i asked her what wuz wrong and she was all like i wasnt in the room. like she just looked right through me. i bet its because of that one time she called her own mom a bitch monkey and her mom heard her say it but she blamed it a on you and her mom told us all to get ut of the car and walk home. her mom is crazy even if she says she's not, i think she is. Whatever. i heard her mom stold twenty dollars out of the bake sale money and then donated it back and said it was hers own money. what a freak right? You can do better though you know. So what if she won't talk to you because of her mom. she's just crazy and embarrASSed, probably. anyway, dont send me to talk to her because she wont even talk to me neither.

You read and re-read the note a few times. It's faded and torn. You found it in the pocket of an eighteen-year-old jean jacket that you haven't picked up in over a decade. The paper now has the consistency of fabric, and the perforated edges fray at the tips.

You hold onto the jacket and try to wrap your mind around the fact that

A) You had for gotten that this jacket even existed.
B) You were looking through the closet, looking for your last box of checks
C) You opened one box that that had been sealed for some years that contained six Garfield calendars from 1984 - 1990.
D) And this jacket.
E) It still fit you.
F) You placed your hand in the pocket and discovered this note.

and, finally,

G) The subject of this note, the one who blamed you for calling her own mother a bitch-monkey, not seconds, SECONDS before, had friended you on Facebook.

You had forgotten her name until now.

It is Tuesday.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Who in the world?


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