not by much. I’m crazy, too.
I never imagined going out with a girl would be so much trouble. Three weeks after our first kiss, I bring Celeste to the table where Neil, Katie, and I eat lunch every day. What a disaster! Celeste goes on and on, explaining the need for more diverse representation in the literary canon. Five minutes into it, I glance at Katie, who looks about ready to punch her in the face if she doesn’t shut up.
Neil and Katie corner me later in the day by my locker.
“What’s up with Celeste?” Neil asks. “Does she always talk like that?”
I shrug. “I guess. To be honest, half the time I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“She better give unbelievable blow jobs for you to put up with that shit,” Katie says.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, feeling sheepish. “All we’ve done so far is kiss.”
Katie stares at me in disbelief.
“We’re just taking it slow,” I say. I don’t want to admit that every time I’ve tried to do more, Celeste has pulled away. I’m nervous that if I keep pushing, she’ll dump me and file a restraining order.
“You’ve got to be the most pathetic person I know,” Katie says.
“Whatever,” Neil says. “At least you’re getting something.” He looks at Katie. “That’s more than either of us can say.”
Katie sneers. “You want to see what you’re missing?” She takes Neil’s head between her hands and kisses him long and hard on the mouth. Then she pushes him away.
“Wow,” I say.
Neil is too stunned to move or speak.
“No big deal,” she says, though her tone is softer and she seems to be trying to suppress a smile.
What I’m hoping is that if I write something for Celeste that she loves, she might be more open to my advances. So I started reading up on famous writers and jotting down funny observations about each one. Then I got bored and just started making things up. Twenty-six drafts later, here’s what I have:
This poem, I do hope, is not an intrusion
I mean it to please, not disillusion.
I know of your deep love for literature
So forgive me for being a bit immature.
We can start way, way back with the epic bard Homer
Who wrote about Helen while nursing a boner.
And even though Homer was totally blind
He was blessed with something beyond a sharp mind.
Shakespeare (the first) while writing King Lear
Got totally hammered guzzling beer.
And in between poems, word has it that Keats
Liked to cavort betwixt oft-soiled sheets.
Milton himself was a mischievous louse
Whose favorite hobby was to egg Shakespeare’s house.
And with whom did Milton engage in this fun?
Sometimes Ben Jonson, sometimes John Donne.
Dante’s Inferno housed souls hot and sweaty,
But his own hell was worse after too much spaghetti.
Every great writer needs inspiration—
Dante’s came from acute constipation.
Not many folks know that George Bernard Shaw
Could often be found wearing a bra.
And rumor has it that E. Allan Poe
Took a trip out to Walden to visit Thoreau.
Emerson looked on norms with defiance
While alone in his room he pursued self-reliance.
And many years later, there followed Ayn Rand
Who did more than write with that self-absorbed hand.
I don’t know much philosophy, but I know that Descartes
Was renowned in his day for the way he could fart.
But even Descartes was not nearly as smelly
As that malodorous scoundrel Percy Bys she Shelley.
I heard a recording of the brilliant James Joyce—
Did you know that the man had a real girly voice?
But Melville was manly, his neck was real thick,
He had hair on his back, and of course Moby-Dick.
In her great depression, Sylvia Plath
Neglected to take either shower or bath.
And while Spenser revised his great Faerie Queene
He failed to maintain good oral hygiene.
Dorothy Parker caused quite a stir
When her agent came over looking for her.
“Go away,” she called out, “I’m fucking busy
And vice versa,” she moaned in a delirious
I never imagined going out with a girl would be so much trouble. Three weeks after our first kiss, I bring Celeste to the table where Neil, Katie, and I eat lunch every day. What a disaster! Celeste goes on and on, explaining the need for more diverse representation in the literary canon. Five minutes into it, I glance at Katie, who looks about ready to punch her in the face if she doesn’t shut up.
Neil and Katie corner me later in the day by my locker.
“What’s up with Celeste?” Neil asks. “Does she always talk like that?”
I shrug. “I guess. To be honest, half the time I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“She better give unbelievable blow jobs for you to put up with that shit,” Katie says.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, feeling sheepish. “All we’ve done so far is kiss.”
Katie stares at me in disbelief.
“We’re just taking it slow,” I say. I don’t want to admit that every time I’ve tried to do more, Celeste has pulled away. I’m nervous that if I keep pushing, she’ll dump me and file a restraining order.
“You’ve got to be the most pathetic person I know,” Katie says.
“Whatever,” Neil says. “At least you’re getting something.” He looks at Katie. “That’s more than either of us can say.”
Katie sneers. “You want to see what you’re missing?” She takes Neil’s head between her hands and kisses him long and hard on the mouth. Then she pushes him away.
“Wow,” I say.
Neil is too stunned to move or speak.
“No big deal,” she says, though her tone is softer and she seems to be trying to suppress a smile.
What I’m hoping is that if I write something for Celeste that she loves, she might be more open to my advances. So I started reading up on famous writers and jotting down funny observations about each one. Then I got bored and just started making things up. Twenty-six drafts later, here’s what I have:
This poem, I do hope, is not an intrusion
I mean it to please, not disillusion.
I know of your deep love for literature
So forgive me for being a bit immature.
We can start way, way back with the epic bard Homer
Who wrote about Helen while nursing a boner.
And even though Homer was totally blind
He was blessed with something beyond a sharp mind.
Shakespeare (the first) while writing King Lear
Got totally hammered guzzling beer.
And in between poems, word has it that Keats
Liked to cavort betwixt oft-soiled sheets.
Milton himself was a mischievous louse
Whose favorite hobby was to egg Shakespeare’s house.
And with whom did Milton engage in this fun?
Sometimes Ben Jonson, sometimes John Donne.
Dante’s Inferno housed souls hot and sweaty,
But his own hell was worse after too much spaghetti.
Every great writer needs inspiration—
Dante’s came from acute constipation.
Not many folks know that George Bernard Shaw
Could often be found wearing a bra.
And rumor has it that E. Allan Poe
Took a trip out to Walden to visit Thoreau.
Emerson looked on norms with defiance
While alone in his room he pursued self-reliance.
And many years later, there followed Ayn Rand
Who did more than write with that self-absorbed hand.
I don’t know much philosophy, but I know that Descartes
Was renowned in his day for the way he could fart.
But even Descartes was not nearly as smelly
As that malodorous scoundrel Percy Bys she Shelley.
I heard a recording of the brilliant James Joyce—
Did you know that the man had a real girly voice?
But Melville was manly, his neck was real thick,
He had hair on his back, and of course Moby-Dick.
In her great depression, Sylvia Plath
Neglected to take either shower or bath.
And while Spenser revised his great Faerie Queene
He failed to maintain good oral hygiene.
Dorothy Parker caused quite a stir
When her agent came over looking for her.
“Go away,” she called out, “I’m fucking busy
And vice versa,” she moaned in a delirious
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