Ever notice how some people are always giving you their résumé? When I was at Duke, when I was with Coca-Cola, when I got my first promotion, and on and on, always another drop.
Others hide theirs like golden eggs they don’t want found, becoming boring via attempts at appearing mysterious.
The more facets there are, the more intriguing the subject, and even the moon has a dark side.
The Pollyannas piss me off; the aging ingenues grate on the central nerve of my soul’s core, cause demons of distaste to scurry through my veins, screaming come the fuck on. You’re a grown goddamn woman; if you’re still innocent, you’re also an imbecile. Go bat your eyes somewhere else and admire your gravy boat while you wait for the Lilly Pulitzer spring line to hit the stores. Laura Fucking Ashley sends her regards.
What about the men still playing at being frat boys? How motherfucking tedious are they? They’re worse on the golf course, absolutely unbearable with their cooler-laden carts and pretentious social media posts on the green.
Then there are the Jesus is the answer to every question evaders, assaults of Psalms. Beatitudes become platitudes when adults bury their heads in scripture while the whole goddamn world burns down around them, while they were supposed to be on watch.
At least the motherfucking circle wasn’t willed unbroken.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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