Romancing the lion

You are a brat, and you get what you want. Not that it’s bad- I would want for you to get me if you want.

You didn’t need to petition the courts to have my name changed. And so you enjoy your privilege to call me Scardy Cat.

You taunted me once bitten, once hurt- how sweet.

I am convinced that you are an excellent teacher but don’t attempt at elementary Science. You were alternately calling me Scardy Cat and Chicken Shit as if the cat hatched from an egg like the chicken has.

If a cat copulates with and, eventually, impregnates a chicken, what would it bear- a kitten or a chick? Don’t ask me which came first between the chicken and the egg. I have to deprive you of every opportunity to articulate The Word. Try saying “Ginkgo Biloba” instead. It sounds nicer, doesn’t it? It is like you are some scholar.

Well, yes, you are an intellectual and a leftist- like Jacopo Belbo in Foucault’s Pendulum. But don’t get me wrong for saying that- I don’t adore you because you become less and less fascinated with people when they do. You seem to be always after somebody who can perpetually fight you.

I always want to pick a fight with you.

I was gritting my teeth before I left our rendezvous until when I trudged into the back of the PUJ because you were telling me that I would bring my chicken torment home. Then you basked in orchestrated triumph. Defeat blinded my eyes when I started writing this. But, no, you can’t win over me so let me continue to write merrily.

At the risk of being misunderstood by our spectators, you unhesitatingly called me The Word but I think that is only because we have a telegraphic Thesaurus. You know that from Shit, I can extract shinola.

Very sweet, indeed. You send hidden messages- like Morse Code.

You are loud, and I love that. You were screaming your lungs out in a hypocritically happy Sunday morning to tell the world that this woman’s a chicken shit.

All that is true but only because I don’t tell you upfront that I have warmed up with you. Is that all you want to know?

A rhetorical question, of course. I know you will tell me you don’t need to because you already know. But, yes, you make me adore you. I hate stating the obvious, too, so let me cut the crap.

There was a time when I was almost inclined to believe you are a member of some cult, spying on me- you would suddenly ask me what I was doing aside from thinking of you.

How sweet.

But you are a smoker so you must be smokey sweet. I have to have you chew a candy, somebody told me. I was once asked if I’m willing to lick an ash tray and I had to say yes since I like you- but, perhaps, only because you have told me you like me. It must be some kind of oral fixation.

My hopes committed suicide a day before your Multiple Personality Disorder attacked. The attempt failed but it died, anyway.

Then later on you made me realise you are another scardy cat.

You told me you are scared to bite, scared to hurt- cheap shot, but how sweet.

Sweet like candy to my soul.

Sweet you rock and sweet you roll.