A Poem in Honor of National Frankenstein Day!
In approximately thirteen days,
My heart is going to be broken into 5,682 pieces.
I can tell because it is pounding magenta and skipping beats.
It's waking me up at night singing "Slave to Love" by Brian Ferry.
It is puffed up with passion...painfully swollen...tender to the touch.
Every few minutes, a tiny tear opens up and his name spills out.
I patch up the holes with hope.
But even my desire-laden determination is no match for the inevitable.
You see, my heart has made the stupid, fucking mistake of falling in love,
With someone who is love with someone else.
And her shadow is a drab and dreary place,
Where people haphazardly morph into root vegetables,
And wear ugly shoes without apology,
A girl like me could never survive in a place like that.
Despite my definitive decrees and guarantees...
That I too can bring out the best in you.
That every Tuesday afternoon should be...could be,
Drenched in champagne and truth.
That you may have liked going to bed with her,
But you would love waking up with me.
And beyond all this, I give a fabulous blowjob...
Nothing...nothing I will do or say
Is going to make him return my affections.
And so... in approximately thirteen days,
My heart will shatter into 5,682 pieces.
And though I just bought a new vacuum cleaner...
The cyclonic kind that has the power to separate molecules into atoms,
I will not sweep up the shards.
Instead, I will get out my tap shoes and dance it into dust.
Then, I will borrow a blowtorch,
And retreat to my bedroom laboratory to build a brand new heart.
One held together by something stronger than instant oatmeal,
And self-serving philosophy.
I will weld a heart designed to go the distance out of...
Pure cane sorghum syrup,
The right rib of a high school prom king,
And Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits.
Insert maniacal laugh here!
My Frankenstein fortress with a Valentine view will be...
Harder to move into than an Upper East Side co-op with a doorman,
And will prove impenetrable...
Even to the mobs of torch-wielding peasants that are bound to show up.
To gain entrance, one will have to fill out a 22 page application with 369 questions, such as:
Will you say what you mean and mean what you say?
Will you find me sexier in your white tee than lace lingerie?
Do you dig dogs?
Can you put the lights on the Christmas tree?
Can I adore you as much as you adore me?
Do you do cold pizza for breakfast?
Will you NOT console me when I cry?
Will your mother like me...or at least try?
Do you believe in ghosts?
Will you stay for two solid days in bed?
Can we buy a claw foot bathtub and paint it red?
Do you listen to classic punk?
Will you kiss my lips passionately every day?
Will you mind being the only guy at the party who isn't gay?
Do you go down?
Can we make love in the pouring rain?
And, will you stay with me if I go insane?
...which is highly possible.
Only if these and the rest are answered "yes,"
Will He be given unhindered, total access.
Once inside, however,
He can stay forever...
If he chooses.
Interested? You can fill out the forms online.
But, if by some miracle...
In approximately thirteen days,
My heart does not get broken,
Because my mind slaps it into submission,
With the truth...
He just cannot accept the awesome,
And that is unacceptable...
Then, I will use my mad, mad scientist skills to invent a decent ice tray.
UPDATE!!! The Frankster answered ALL of the questions right, and we will therefore live happily ever after, except when I want to kill him with a sock full of nickels. The douche noodle this poem was written about is, as far as I know, still single and wallowing in his own pretentiousness.
Sharing All I KNOW about the fine art of voluptuating. here's to living the lush life.