that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

and a handle

to hold

onto

.

life

.

.

.

.

sags and wrinkles

still

hanging on

.

.

.

.

.

after much

consternation

she decided

to go with

the scarf

.

.

.

.

.

singing

my version

of friends

in

high places

.

A good word to describe what I’m feeling just now as I navigate my way through a medical system that seems to work in all ways backward.

Frosted as in, “That really frosts my cookies.”

Which is a phrase that makes me laugh, and I have no idea what it really means, but the fact that it makes me laugh is enough.

For now.

Because if I don’t laugh, I’m going to cry. Or yell.

Now, who wants a cookie?

.

sometimes

it really is better

to bend a little

.

Dear February,

I’m turning my back and you, and I won’t be peeking over my shoulder as I walk away, so don’t wait for me.

It’s not me, it’s you. No, really, it’s YOU.

I know I’m not supposed to hold grudges, and I’ve tried hard to be forgiving, but you, well, let’s just say no one would ever accuse you of being bubbly. Or sunshiny. Or heartwarming.

You are one long, cold, grey night and that’s the truth of it.

Oh, I tried warming up to you, I built you fires and brought you flowers and attempted to sweeten you up with chocolate.

But you refuse to crack, all encased in the ice you wear so proudly, thinking you’re so cool.

And yes, I know that March may not actually be a step up, he’s really more like a slide on over, but he has more heart than you, anyone can see that.

Goodbye February. I wish I could say it was good while it lasted, I wish I had been able to transcend my bitterness.

In the end, I got cold feet.

Because you stole all my shoes.

So go on now, wrap yourself in that dirty, used-to-be-white jacket and find yourself another girl.

I hope you can find one that loves you more than I did.

Good luck with that.

::

the snail days

of summer

::

::

i will

stop for

::

::

from

a whole

new

life.

::