Forgetfulness Insults My Intelligence

A very (Photo credit: Quinn Dombrowski)

The ghost of Christmas past has gotten a lot more dramatic with time.  (Photo credit: Quinn Dombrowski)

I remember.
Ten years ago,
You were interested.
You convinced our friends
to leave us
alone.

Idiots.

I wasn’t interested.
You didn’t talk to me
for a year
until they talked some sense into you.
Or cheer.
Or maybe a bribe.
Or tequila.

The good old days.

And now,
we meet.
You and yours.
A friend and his.
Me,
and your best friend.

She’s interested.
You know I’m not.
You’re setting us up.

Those who forget their history
are doomed to inflict it on others.

Your ego was
tolerated
until then
because I remember the old you.

You lost that memory
underneath the TV shows,
movies,
fast food adoration
and the willingness to
falsify your own memoir.

I’m not so willing
to jump
into razor blades
covered
with french fries
and chocolate pudding
because you
want to dance
without guilt.

Innocence is knowing that it’s the other person’s fault.
Thank you for freeing me.

Innocence Insults My Intelligence

The wonderful folks at WordPress who host this blog published a most interesting writing prompt today:

Daily Prompt: Pour Some Sugar on Me

What is your favorite sweet thing to eat? Bread pudding? Chocolate chip oatmeal cookies? A smooth and creamy piece of cheesecake? Tell us all about the anticipation and delight of eating your favorite dessert. Not into sweets? Tell us all about your weakness for that certain salty snack.

Really?  Am I the only one who is having a hard time NOT reading this as an invitation to write pornography?