November 27: Channeling Dorothy Parker

First let me say it's such a relief to be writing about vaginas again instead of poop. You have no idea how refreshing vaginas can be when you've been swimming in the cesspool.

Second, if you haven't liked Reticulated Writer on Facebook, you've been missing some funny stuff that happens in response to, or maybe in spite of, what I write here. And I only need 9 more likes to hit 100, which frankly, is pathetic, but I tend to get excited about the little things. So click the button over there to the right and make both of us happy.

Third, I spent the night talking with my friend Hockey Puck about dating, and it's scary as fuck to admit but it's no easier at my age than it is at hers and she's younger than my son. Shit.

This is why I don't date.  (Source: http://abstrusegoose.com/114)

A couple of people have noticed I've been hinting about something, and they've have called me out on it. It's true. I have been, and it has to do with dating -- which I don't do. I really don't. Yet. But something is brewing, and I'll post about it soon. Within the next week.

Until then, I offer this poem by Dorothy Parker -- she of the acerbic, witty tongue and pen. Oh, how I love her. She's who I would have been if I hadn't had the utter and total bitch beaten socialized out of me by all the residents of a small town in Iowa.

Nevertheless I offer this poem with a shudder.

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;

I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.

I hate my legs, I hate my hands,

I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;

I hate to go to bed at night.

I snoot at simple, earnest folk.

Dorothy Parker

I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.

My world is but a lot of tripe.

I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.

For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.

My quondam dreams are shot to hell.

My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;

I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.

I ponder on the narrow house.

I shudder at the thought of men....

I'm due to fall in love again. 

If I were to write a poem in the style of Dorothy Parker, this is what I would write.

Fuck me.

I'm going back for more.