Sunday, November 24, 2013
I eat cheerios. Multi-grain, whole grain, pink cheerios (valentine’s limited time offer), you name it. I’ve had it all. Mother likes cheerios. She has high cholesterol.
I used to think that sugar cereal was the answer to everything. If everyone woke up to Lucky Charms and Cookie Crisp, the world wouldn’t be so hungry for sophistication, and too full for dirtying.
IF YOU EAT CAPTAIN CRUNCH, YOU’LL NEVER DIE. CHOLESTEROL ISN’T REAL.
Shine your shoes. It’s a big day. People to see. Cereal to eat.
So you try dirtying yourself. Captain Crunch is 10% off with the purchase of Cheerios. My mother’s cholesterol goes up. It’s a big day for you and her.
You’re successful because you eat captain crunch and everything you ever dreamed of comes true. I said so.
Do you love me now? Will you share my speech on Facebook and tell your friends, “This girl, Hazel, she knows how to succeed!”. Will you buy my books? Or the boxes of captain crunch with my face on it? Will your in-laws hear about my Captain Crunch ordeal at Thanksgiving? You’ll send them my book for Christmas, and amazon-prime-pre-order, my second book about Crunch Berries.
And you’ll quote me: “Cholesterol isn’t real with Captain Crunch." "You can do anything with Captain Crunch".
And you’ll love Captain Crunch. You’ll love Captain Crunch.
The truth ^^
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Sunday, November 10, 2013
I never swear.
Damn. That sounds like a good way to start. Damn that’s a nice yacht. I’m out of gas damn it.
I never curse. Sometimes it’s because I think there’s a chance there could be something up there after our life closes. And that’s a risk I wouldn’t think is wise to throw away. But shit, I’m also afraid I’ll slip up and totally screw up swearing. What if I accidentally say something like, “What the damn is up” or “That’s so shitting cool”. I’d feel half-assed and I wouldn’t be giving the words justice. Hell, I’d ruin it for everybody. Everybody would be mad at Hazel and I’d feel awkward as Hell. Is Hell going to be awkward?
I’m glad that Bob Ross doesn’t “give a shit about the moon”. First, I admire the shit out of him that he could say it like that. What a bad-ass.
Sometimes I get bitchy and come very closing to cussing at whoever makes me mad. Tonight I’m not giving too many shits so hell yeah.
But if I was giving shits I’d say , “sofa king” and mouth the words, “vacuum bench” which makes it look like I’m swearing. So. That’s cool too.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
They should make one final animated short. Where a now adult Bonnie visits the elderly, sick, and bedridden Andy in the hospital. Nobody would say anything, just soft music, and the sounds of the machines regulating. Bonnie's daughter walks in clutching a tattered woody. She walks to Any's bed and hesitates but Bonnie smiles at her and nods. She turns to Andy, places Woody in the crook of his arms and turns back to her mother's side. Moments pass and and Andy still lays in bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling slowly. Bonnie and the daughter leave. Woody turns his head up and looks Andy up and down, and back to his closed eyes as if they were open. Woody lights up and says "Thanks, partner". A smile spreads slowly across Andy's face and Woody too closes his eyes.
Feet propped up in November and I’m thinking about you like crazy, like,
wood thinks about burning,
like drunks think about swerving,
like boys like bodies to be curving.
I'm thinking about you like
boots think about go-go’s,
like girls drop it so low,
I'm feeling a different kind of low,
like writers think about ethos, pathos, and logos.
I’m thinking about you like
Children think about nightmares,
like November thinks about facial hairs,
like I think about your scruff, and I’d lick you like a cream puff,
you’d call me “hot-stuff”…
but I’m trapped in these love cuffs.
And I’m still thinking about you like,
Cats think about posing for T-shirts,
Like addicts think about a smoke at a concert,
Like perverts would think about my skirt,
And your eyes won’t so much as avert towards this so obvious flirt I’m putting on.
I’m thinking about you like swings think about kids growing up. They weigh more on the chains, their butts get bigger, and you know what? I bet the swings even like it. Pedophiles.
It’s still November and the the blood has rushed away from my feet while I sit here and think and think and think about you like the last line of this poem thinks about being read aloud. It won’t because I’ve got stage fright, the screen is too bright, and I feel like a yellow traffic light my mind screaming “SLOOOOW DOWN” and red doesn’t come soon enough.
I’m thinking about you like a green light. Red means stop.