I used to have this great girlfriend. She was always there for me. She’d laugh at all my jokes. And the sex was, well, amazing. But then things started to go sour.
We’d get into these horrible shouting matches over the dumbest things. She’d tell me that my family was conspiring against me and that there were cameras hidden in the walls. And I’d tell her she was full of shit and that the only person conspiring against me was the man in the plaid suit, and maybe the transsexual cashier at the Rite Aid.
Still, I loved her, and we decided that no matter what, we were going to make the relationship work. And we did. Until my doctor prescribed these special orange pills for me. My girlfriend, Imogene, didn’t want me to take them. But I didn’t have a choice. It was either take the pills or spend a few months in the hospital.
So I took the medication. And wouldn’t you know it, the next morning, Imogene was gone. I mean, everything of hers was gone, aside from a bottle of perfume I bought for her and some very tiny soaps in the shower.
I still think about Imogene sometimes. But whenever I mention her to my family or friends, they just give me this funny look. I mean, sure she was difficult at times, but she was an important part of my life. And I don’t care what anyone else says about her, I’ve never met a sweeter, gentler, or more down-to-earth, one-inch-high woman in my life. Imogene, I miss you.
Imogene? Man you don’t want to get mixed up with her. She was still languishing in the dance masters program when I was doing undergraduate work. She’s way too old for you; just looks young ’cause she’s so short.
Have to admit she didn’t stand out or anything. All dance majors are truly strange. At least she wasn’t of the 50% of them that reek of patchouli. But she was always doing stretches that made her look like one of the Cirque the Soliel cast, and mumbling about how hard it was to find legwarmers in her size.
She had this dream of getting a music box gig. She’d talk about it constantly at dinner while she worked on her pea (she was a vegitarian then, don’t know about now). We all told her that she should set her sights higher. Why would you want to stand on a magnet all day over a mirror? I mean talk about people looking up your skirt.
Aww, come on. Anyone else Got Game? Smivey threw down loads to work with.
Edith, thanks for reminding me. To this day, I can no longer eat peas without weeping uncontrollably.
I feel utterly thrust into Dadaism again…
For Annamatic and others who did not have little ballerinas dancing on a mirror in their childhood, here is the toy, approximately.
http://www.victoriantrading.com/store/catalogimages/cl/i3190.html
sorry about the time warp.
PEAS
I can play “The Music Box Dancer” on the piano. Does that count?
Nope, still feeling Dada-y.
Just drink a vente cup of chai and take two excedrin migrane first thing in the morning. Then read it all while your body is reeling from the caffeine shock, buzzing with sweetener of choice, and dealing with the slightly toxic spices. It will all make perfect sense.
In the evening you can substitute Thai iced tea and a curry with that Thai basil in it, but accept no substitute for a good fresh bottle of excedrin migrane tablets.
Forget about her Smivey! Shes a tramp! She did the same thing to me!
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