Sorry that I’ve been AWOL. The time off really messed with my writing mojo and I did a lot of partying over the break. I have no idea what day it is anymore.
But don’t fret, I did some cooking over Thanksgiving (can you say Shrimp Sputnik?), I just haven’t had a chance to download the pics and put pen to paper. Or finger to key. Whatever.
I am actually part of a little cooking challenge that is going on over at The Rantings of an Amateur Chef called DICED! My dish is going up on Thursday, but if you want to see the other entrants, check the site out all this week. AND THEN VOTE FOR ME TO WIN BECAUSE I AM AWESOME.
In the meantime, here’s a little ditty from the vaults. Be well, my friends!
Love Poem #99
I hate you.
I hate you with an intensity reserved for those who have truly wronged me:
tailgaters and line-jumpers and shitty waitresses.
I hate you the way I do stretch pants on fat women, high-
waisted jeans, and Crocs.
I hate you as much as hangnails and paper cuts and stubbed toes.
I hate you with every ounce of my being—like cockroaches
and menstrual cramps and Kenny Chesney.
I hate you even more when the lights go up, the keg is kicked,
and the last cigarette is smoked.
I hate you all-encompassingly like frizzy hair and pimples and wrinkles.
I hate you like razor burn, sunburn and hives.
I hate you because you remind me of New York City heat waves:
100 degree days in brownouts.
I hate rum & coke.
You are the New England Patriots.
You are the Westboro Baptist Church.
My misplaced apostrophe is you.