Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

The snow falls, daffodils bought last week droop from the mason jar long wilted, dried flowers--from the fall--still stand in another mason jar providing another touch of me in this space as dried bouquets have long intrigued me, the lone orchid stands dying as a reflection of my mood and life as of late, my foot aches in the backdrop, and music no one wants to listen to plays.  Sad songs.  Moods and memories.  In the shower, I notice a new bruise on my shoulder.  I wonder when it came to be, where it came from, and why I didn't see until now.  Did I do that in my sleep? Was it someone on a crowded subway? It's the wrong shoulder for my handbag. I wash my hair and forget about it.  Riddled with aches of Lupus and arthritis I do yoga in my studio.  I can't make it out for a run, as my post-pneumonia lungs are still reminding me of things of I should not do, and pole dance is planned for Friday.  I play mixed songs, of a favorite playlist i...

Perhaps it is this time of year.  Perhaps.  Though, this time of year typically means I've bought myself daffodils.  Ironically, I did not buy them in the rain this year.   Someone told me a few weeks back I was very Wadsworth with the daffodils.  Perhaps.  The English Major for Life in me wants to agree with his own English degree self, but the feminist in me wants to knee gut that shit.  I think I'll step back and take the romantic imagery of Wadsworth instead.  "A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze." Indeed, probably one of the more famous poems of the language I type in.  "I Wandered Lonely on a Cloud" was one I recited back in my undergrad days for a lit professor I once had.  All that was a lifetime ago, scores and hundreds of daffodils purchased have come and gone.  As another arctic vortex swoops in, threatening to freeze me in my solitary ex...