Memoirs of a Brief Affair

RH stands for Radical Honesty and might make you think of the hemorrhoid cream. Hemorrhoid is one of those ridiculously difficult words to spell. A lack of hemorrhoids is a source of gratitude. Some people make a case for lukewarm honesty. Instead of the radical kind. I am not that kind of people.

A couple of friends suggested I start a new Haiku or poetry blog. Marriedman.com.

Haiku One. Memoirs of a Brief Affair.

In meditation,

I heard your wife say please stop
texting my husband.

I'd rather not stop.
It is super addictive.
What should we do now.

My dream was about

You guys getting a divorce.
She told your family.

I sat there, listened

as Susie crawled on my lap.
Jeremy said nothing.

I wanted to text

"You didn't try therapy."
Like you said you would.

"It's too expensive."

That was your excuse. But it's
cheaper than divorce.

End of Haiku one.

Seeking redemption,

I fold all my underwear
To look like a rose.

If you’re wondering how Facebook Rehab is going, well, between haikus to the Married Man, I am now posting selfies of myself wearing plush elephant masks and talking to owl puppets. They get tons of likes.

 

Plush Performances

My deepest fear is
I’ll still be sending haikus
To you in ten years.

Tonight at 6 p.m., I get to spark joy in the house of some banker/kundalini yoga instructor. Yesterday, on my way to Butt Club, I texted my most darling friend and mentor (MMDFAM) who generously invited me to my first threesome last spring in Toronto.   

Yesterday, 5:12 PM:  MMDFAM! How’s it going? I tried to get closure with the married man in person, since the haikus did not work. But nor did seeing him. We didn’t make out but I could not can it. I like him. He will never make me a well-fucked woman. What am I doing? Why can’t I channel all this energy into something useful? I feel addicted to the drama and the constant affirmation. It is so hard to focus on life. The Facebook Rehab is a bust. Soon it will be Butt Club. I love you. I’m sure your butt looks phenomenal. XO.

MMDFAM suggested that we raise a toast to INCREMENTALLY BETTER and the Baby Steps^TM method. But having said that, sometimes closure is overrated. Like folding your underwear into the shape of a rose. Butt Club was an enormous success. Four Participants. World record. The Married Man sent his congratulations. He remains in massive haiku debt.

When are we gonna

Bother with integrity
This just needs to end.

I finished translating the novel excerpt about terrorists on a luxury cruise ship. Several sentences needed to die. For example,

“Each of their faces displayed a victorious smile and the entire group exuded a nearly infantile excitement.”

Nobody got to exude a nearly infantile excitement or display a victorious smile. Also the vanishing box did not get to bid farewell with a foamy bluish whirlpool. I am giving the sentences closure.

“Though the men appeared curious at the time, their interest quickly faded as the vanishing box bid farewell with a foamy bluish whirlpool.”

And the love affair between the ex-marine and the captivating cruise ship acrobat didn’t seem to work out either. It died in chapter eight.

“Instead of answering, Charles stopped walking and sadly watched Bella’s figure gradually disappear, like a dream that tortures the heart as it fades into the distance, beyond reach.”

There’s no narrative

Closure is overrated.

The End.

 

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Crackbook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

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Performative Crying in Alleys
The Tidying Festival