Love Offers an Apologia to Various Bar Patrons
Between Sips of His Fourth Long Island Iced Tea
To begin, there is no alpha and no omega, I just am. And let me dispel the pop culture myth that I’m all you need, because it’s not true. You need more, you really do. (I said tealights and Beaujolais, not tacos and Budweiser.) It is not my fault that you didn’t write down what she said after those margaritas and it is not my fault that you did not meet him when he told you, nor that you did not wear that little charcoal gray number he likes so much. It is not my fault that he smokes cigars, nor that she has a penchant for them. Could you add another shot of gin to this please? I didn’t name the car in that Disney movie, though after further review I think it works. I’ve never once said that you should say it over and over and over, tossing it around like ‘Hello’ or ‘How’s it going?’ It should be almost-sacred, whispered, shouted, intimate (take that as you wish–intimate and cozy, intimate apparel, intimate friends, into mate). It needs a little rum, too. I do not have wings and I do not go around shooting heart-tipped arrows in some serial-loving rampage that’s going to be on the 6 o’clock news. February 14 was not my idea, neither were those little cards you had to buy for Mrs. Morton’s third grade class. I’ve had it up to here with the TV game shows, the classified ads, and Hallmark. It is not my fault she set you up with the guy from IT. I never told you she would be gentle. I don’t honor redos. I don’t encourage cutesy poems and letters in her locker. Say, more vodka please, the ice is melting. I don’t recommend you wait for him after every practice. I don’t like it when you say tough love and I don’t answer calls on the first ring. ‘Hugs not Drugs’ is not mine (does it work?). You can’t me books, TV shows, outfits, money, movies, cars, cities, or Mexican food. You should, whether or not he can dance. If you really do, she should get another chance. And it’s not a matter of whether you keep on your pants. Triple sec, more triple shec, the balanshe is off. My pet peeves are wishy-washy-ness, unfinished business, and people who use ❤. Since the year dot, I’ve only tried to make it go ‘round. Sometimes you guys should pitch in. At first sight is okay, but it bothers me that the French call it a strike of lightning. What’s the weather got to do with it? I protest words that rhyme with me, I am a wonderful thing, even if he can’t sing.
And I’m definitely better than war.