|(robotmelon (issue five))|
|Fourteen Love Poems and a Whimper of Despair|
|by Katrina Kymberly NGUYEN|
My aspiration this month is to scream from the highest, stupidest building in Denver. I want you to be on the street looking up, laughing like it is a joke that Will Ferrell just told you. I love you.
Life is like a box of chocolates, a box of chocolates that has been sitting in the smoldering heat in my '96 Acura 3.0 CL that I was too poor to pay off so had to sell to my stepfather's redneck coworker. I now ride the bus. I love you.
I am waiting for the bus and I hear reggae from someone's SUV and I hear Tina Turner from someone's 1987 Mazda. "What time does this bus come?" a girl in pink flip-flops asks. I don't know. I am a failure and a slacker in life. My contacts are dry. I love you.
There is a little girl bouncing down the street with a fake anaconda around her neck. I want to be that little girl. I want to be that fake anaconda. I want the little girl to want to be me wanting to be her and wanting to be the fake anaconda. I love you.
I wonder what my cat is doing at home right now. He is probably tearing apart all the last of the toilet paper that I do not have the energy, motivation, or money to replace. I will angrily, but gently and lovingly, rub the shredded pieces of toilet paper in his face, and then I will solemnly rub something else into it. I love you.
It is raining and no one will talk to me. I am compiling cigarette butts on the bench next to me like an orchestra in C major. Orchestral nicotine-stained maneuvers in the rain. I love you.
Lesbians want to be my friend but I am too scary. Heterosexual men want to be my friend but I am too scary. I love you.
My aspiration next month is to write the most intellectually stimulating and emotionally daring personal ad to post on craigslist. I want it to be nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, or at least be featured in Harper's. I want men with beer bellies and big red trucks to respond to the ad and tell me that I can ride in their trucks any day. Just playing. I want the post to be flagged by someone who is angry and perfect for me. I love you.
My professor wears black and grey and likes to be post-modern about life. I want my professor to hate me for being careless. I am a little bit in love with my professor. I want to ask my professor to be my best friend. I want my professor to give me an 'A' for being so adorable. My professor avoids me when we see each other outside of class. I love you.
Three middle-aged men are talking and laughing and are being slightly overweight and are being slightly bald. I bet their wives are making something good tonight. I bet their children watch 'Hannah Montana.' I bet they are going to the bar to drink beer and watch sports later this week. I hope they ask me to join. I love you.
Someone who wants to understand the neuroses that I am failing at disguising hands me a bag of pot as a gift. I do not smoke pot, and maybe he already understands. I take the bag, I say 'thank you,' I put the bag into my top desk drawer, I feel like vomiting. I love you.
I want to sleep tonight covered in pages from my favorite books. The second page of 'Tropic of Cancer' will be stapled to my face, and the first page of 'Moby Dick' will be elmer-glued to my ass so it can be taken off with minimal effort. 'Moby Dick' is not my favorite book. I love you.
There is a boy reading in the student lounge. There is a girl sleeping in the student lounge. A 'sexy' older man who is probably a shitty professor catches my eye as the microwave beeps. I was chewing on my pen. It was awkward. I love you.
There is a fine line between complete idiocy and misunderstood intelligence. I am Albert Einstein. I am Marcel Duchamp. Shit, no, I am Carlos Mencia. I love you.
My mom says, 'Get better,' and I whimper back like a starving dog, 'OK, I will try.'
'No, that is not good enough. Get better or mysteriously die tonight in your sleep.'
I wish she would say that.
I love you.