Cooler than You: Stupid Things I Say and Do

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...

The daffodils are starting to arrive, as the shop's windows are beginning to show.  Well, hidden behind the layers and mounds of red roses for the upcoming lovers holiday the colors of spring edge through.  None-the-less, I found myself procuring my first daffs of the season as I near annually do.  As in years past, the rain and snow have poetically encapsulated the buy.  Yet, this year, I found myself buying them on a seemingly bright, sunfilled day.  In reality, it was all trickery, as the cold winter wind remained blustery and I could feel slithers of a sharpened frigid blast under the hem of my parka.  Daffodils are fleeting, and the moment of joy of their annual arrival is a glimmer into the wispy darkness that winter brings.  This year the hope and joy eluded me.  The bright flowers, filling my air with their welcoming aroma of fresh life, act as forgotten tchotchkes on the shelves around me.  Those shelves are holding ...