Poems shmoems

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Shut the hell up
Your poetry sucks

As a para-professional do-nothing, it is my job (yes, job) to watch Orpah on a pretty frequent basis. I'm not quite sure how I feel about her yet, but I watch her show anyway. The other day, a woman who had lost her son in an accident was on the Oprah couch, talking about how her life had changed since his death and all that jazz. Oprah asked her to read a poem she had written for the occasion.

I. Hate. Amateur. Poetry.

This woman's heart was in the right place, and I was touched by her attempt to honor her son. Nevertheless, I loathe, repeat LOATHE, when people write poetry on their own and somone convinces them that it's good enough to read out loud. Did you write a poem? Fantastic. Keep it to yourself. I won't think it's beautiful, I won't think it's moving, and I won't think you are a genius. Turn that poetry into prose? We're finally getting somewhere. Keep it as a poem? Don't waste time/oxygen reading it. It sucks and I don't want to listen.

That's all for now, kittens. Keep that hate mail comin'.

Formula for a first date

The least I could do before brunch was go to the gym. I'm glad I didn't eat beforehand, because I certainly would have thrown up my pancakes on the couple having a first date next to the rowing machines. The louder I blasted Justin Timberlake (good workout music...don't judge me) on my iPod, the louder their flirtatious banter got.

He made sweeping generalizations of the female gender, and then proclaimed her the exception. She giggled, batted her eyelashes, and then giggled some more (making her look quite intelligent, I might add). He made a self-deprecating remark, which she would then counter with an equally self-deprecating remark. Then, they both giggled, him a little more imp-ish than her. She talked about how hard it is to be single. He stared at her boobs. They agreed to meet for coffee, presumably to do the same things all over again, all while nursing 5-dollar lattes from Starbucks.

I wish them the best of luck. I have no doubt that I witnessed the beginning of a long and fruitful relationshit.

(NB: Had I thrown up, it would have been the second first date I ruined. The first ruined date was at a Japanese restaurant in St. Marks, where Loser Boy and I got wasted, and in the throes of a make-out sesh, kept knocking into some couple's table. They looked horrified, which was no doubt amplified when LB started yelling "FIST ME" instead of "pound it." I wonder if they went out again...)