This piece is almost a year old, but it's kind of funny. It made me laugh, anyway.

I’m tired.

Tired of getting haircuts, wearing clothes, tired of bras

And paperclips and soda and headaches.

Tired of commuting to work.

Tired of music.

Tired of thinking about ways to decorate the house.

Tired of shoelaces and trash cans and noise

and company,

Lower back pain in symphony with

A twisting hip,

and sitting.

Working, vacation,

The heat, the AC blasting in my face,

The gritty gravel grinding on the bottom of my foot

and how it got into my shoe and how I will never know

because I’m too busy scooping dog poop

and being accused by presumptuous, unintelligent neighbors

of not scooping my dog’s poop when I am literally holding a bag of dog shit in my hand.

Tired of the HOA.

Tired of the doctor.

Tired of thinking maybe I have skin cancer,

or maybe I am almost 40

and my skin is just fucking ugly now!

Tired of never getting to eat ice cream

then eating too much of it thinking it will be liberating and wonderful

and discovering it’s either


or diarrhea.

Total elation,

or extreme sport self-loathing.

Tired of wondering if I should get a better-paying job

then finding my resume and never updating it

then deciding I don’t want another job

because this one lets me have almost two weeks off at Christmas

Tired of waiting all year long

for Christmas to come.

Tired of missing my coworker who quit

who used to say “it’s Christmas dumb dumb!”

in June.

Tired of writing terrible poetry

and not writing songs anymore,

and thinking of another way to sing

“You are furry and tiny and snuggly and cute and you have a spotty hiney”

to my dog.

Tired of giving my dog chemo pills

and taking her to the vet every single month

just to be told she is doing well and to keep giving her chemo pills

even though her lymph nodes aren’t swollen anymore.

I think I might have pink eye

but I can’t see without my contacts to drive,

Even though I’m tired of driving,

tired of other drivers

and incessant road construction

projected to be completed two to twenty years from now.

In one month

I will be forty.

In 13 months, forty-one.

In a lifetime, what I have to show for it

is a dead body

and a garbage can that smells like dog shit.



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