Friday, December 2, 2022

Wednesday Addams’ Perfect Guy

Wednesday Addams stood in line outside the speed dating room, contemplating the sign taped to the door: We have a heart for you! She had been searching for so long, at least seventy-two hours. If she had only known about this place earlier.


The guy in front of her said, “Three minutes isn’t enough time to know if you want someone to stick around.”


Wednesday examined his jugular veins. “Do you enjoy exsanguination?” she said.


“I don’t think so.”


“Do you have any contagious diseases?”


“No, what does—”


“No mononucleosis? No methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus? Not even COVID?”


“Of course not!”


“Then don’t stick around,” she told him.


After the fruitless exchange, Wednesday decided to allow the next guy more than mere seconds to express himself.


“Is this your first time?” the second guy said.


Wednesday nodded.


“It’s intimidating,” he said. “So many rules, so little time.”


“So many witnesses,” Wednesday said.


“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes at the sign on the door. “You had my bleeding heart at hello.”


Wednesday smiled at him, and he didn’t flinch. The hours she spent practicing in front of the mirror had paid off.


They walked down the block, smiling at each other. Wednesday stopped when they reached the Addams family hearse.


Covering his mouth, the guy whispered, “Maybe we shouldn’t be this cheery so close to the dead.”


“That’s just my brother, Pugsley,” Wednesday said. “He likes riding in the coffin, and Lurch spoils him. Besides, we enjoy doing things together.”


“You brought your brother on a date?” The guy shook his head at Wednesday, and began backing away. He bumped into Lurch.


Lurch grunted.


The guy yelped, wide eyes going back and forth between Lurch and Pugsley—who kept waving and grinning wildly from inside the coffin. “I’m into a lot of things, lady, but sharing my heart with other men isn’t one of them.”


“Don’t worry,” she said, “Pugsley only wants your brain. Granny Addams called dibs on your entrails and teeth. The rest is up for grabs. Except your heart. Your heart will bleed just for me.” She flashed him a real Wednesday Addams smile. And this time, he flinched and whimpered. 


He was perfect.


there is a chance that I might be enjoying Tim Burton’s Wednesday a bit too much

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #55: Bleeding Hearts.

Thursday, November 24, 2022

Must Love Freakishly Wild Things

not-quite Journaling, 46

11/9/2022: Such a pretty specimen, isn’t it? But pretty is as pretty does, and this pretty spotted lanternfly can do pretty ugly things to certain trees. I found this one in the hospital courtyard. And since I’m a bit of a coward (when it comes to murdering living things in cold blood), I put it in a cup and handed it to a groundskeeper. He took one look at my face, and said, “It needs to be done.” Still, I feel a wee bit bad about it.


Autumn is looking rather spring(y). Beautiful and slightly terrifying, isn’t it?


Become your curiosity.

11/16/2022: Someone who just joined the Crohn’s disease crappy club, said to me, “I’m f*cking overwhelmed by how much I don’t know about this shit!” (I’m almost sure the pun wasn’t intended—his frustration didn’t sound amused). Anyway, I told him that everyone gets tired of the unwanted ways in which being chronically ill changes one’s life. And that the best way to stick it to the chronic illness monster is to learn as much about ourselves and our illnesses as we possibly can. Because cliché or not, “knowledge is power”. And when one lives with a disease that dictates what one eats, where one goes, how one travels… one needs all the power one can get.


Rommy asked me for ordinary. But I was feeling quite contrary. So, I said:


Compulsions can be chains

or wings.

11/21/2022: Most souls living with OCD are probably baring their teeth at these poem bit. On my bad days, I have trouble believing it too. Still, the words are true. For instance, physical exercise helps me deal with intrusive thoughts and anxiety, even when my flesh and bones aren’t really in the mood; the more I’m attacked (and trust me, it is an ATTACK), the more I exercise. And goodness knows my chunkalicious, chronically ill self really benefits from it.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #54: Writing to a Stranger.

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