I was on my way home from Starbucks, with my usual decaf grande half-soy half-low fat iced vanilla double-shot gingerbread cappuccino extra dry light ice with one Sweet-n’-Low and one NutraSweet, and Robyn was just standing outside the house, weeping. And it wasn’t his usual weeping, either. It was like, sad weeping.
I went up to him to ask him what was wrong, and he just hugged me and told me everything was going to be ok. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but he made me spill my drink, so I got to do a little weeping of my own.
I love trips! It’s not even my birthday or anything!
Some woman coughed right on me at West Edmonton Mall yesterday. No hand cover. No turning to the side. She walked right up to me, looked me dead in the eyes, and coughed right on me.
I was going to write a poem about it, but I’m feeling far too ill. If this mystery disease kills me, tell Robyn I’ll miss him the least.
It’s pointy and fun. Depending on how you write it.
It’s like me and you. Because there’s two of us.
Sometimes rhymes with tree. Unless you’re French.
Let’s go to the store. I’m out of milk.
It makes me feel so alive. Like that drink. Snapple.
Nothing rhymes with six. Don’t argue.
It’s got less numbers than eleven. Which has more numbers than one.
Put some noodles on a plate. Then throw some sauce on there. It’s delicious.
Nine is doing just fine. It has no problems with seven, despite what you may have been previously told.
The poem is at it’s end. It rhymes, shut up.