Poem: “Perfectly Imperfect with a Bottle of Singapore Lager”

During one of our imaginary conversations
She called me “perfect”
And I laughed so hard that the Singapore lager
(which I ordered because it had a tiger on the bottle)
Foamed up in the back of my throat
And made me choke on the joke.

Perfect? I suppose I am.
Perfectly imperfect.
Perfect in the way pi is perfect
Because it makes no sense
On purpose
But still has a purpose.

I’m a manic pixie dream girl
Who is mentally stable,
Weighs 150 pounds,
Can’t fly,
Doesn’t like The Smiths,
Zonks out in the backseat during your road trip to find yourself,
Finds nightmares more worth her time than dreams,
And despises that after earning a degree and two promotions
Is still called “girl” in common colloquialism.

As I pass by good opportunities
I wave at them
With the same lolling wrist-roll
As royalty regarding subjects out a foggy car window
Just before the cavalcade careens off a cliff.

I choreograph zombie chases
To Stevie Wonder hits
While I walk to work.

I wait for text messages that never come
But refuse to make the first move
Because I’m stubborn
(but not really),
Because I like being chased
(but only by people I want chasing me),
And mostly because I’m terrified of appearing too aggressive
(even though I am).

My neighbors know my real-time reactions
To reruns of Designing Women
Not because the walls are that thin
But because I’m that loud
In my passion for Annie Potts.

It took me an inexcusable amount of time
To learn that Britney Spears wasn’t the original artist
Behind “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”
And I felt betrayed by my elders
When I finally found out.

I expect too much and not enough all at once.

(I stole that last line from a Fall Out Boy song.)

I write poems that suck
Paragraphs that suck
Short stories that suck
And then post them online
And anxiously await comments that say they suck,
That say they don’t,
And that try to sell me all-natural male enhancement hormones.

The smell of Jack Daniels makes me gag
Because it reminds me of fumbling hands, slippery tongues and blurry faces
Encountered during dim nights in college,
And also the death of Janis Joplin.

I fall in love too fast
Because I imagine conversations with people
That make our relationship seem stronger than it is,
That make them seem more interested in me than they are,
That make me seem more perfectly imperfect than I am.
Like this one, right now.

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Poem: New Age Resolutions

In the icing on my birthday cake
I wrote a list.
I titled it

“New Age Resolutions.”

Chocolate frosting collected under my nail
As my finger wove between candles and candies,
Tracing:

Start something new.
Finish something old.
Then finish that something new, too.

Be more humble,
But post more selfies.
And videos.
And projects.
And writing.
And update LinkedIn.

Read before bed
And meditate in the morning,
But don’t fear sleeping in sometimes,
And don’t stay up too late on a school night
(Unless for a good reason,
Like a concert
Or one more chapter
Or a friend in need
Or being in need of a friend.)

Run more
But always toward things
Never away.

Don’t regret past mistakes,
But don’t dwell on them, either.
Stop thinking of him when tongue tastes tequila.
Stop thinking of the other him when nose detects a lit Camel Light.
Stop thinking of the other other him when ears catch that song,
Because you never danced to it together anyway.

In fact, go dancing.
Find someone to dance with,
Even if it’s the 1- and 3-count
(You’re Caucasian, after all)
And a reluctantly sipped Corona missing the lime.

Drink less.
Cook more.
Tweet less.
March more.
Swear less.
Kiss more.

Eat more cake.

I took my own advice,
So I ran out of space.
And I signed the contract with myself
By licking the frosting off my finger
With a champagne cork “pop.”