The Bucket Room – Comfort #755

Posted on December 8, 2011

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I have the stomach flu, so normally I couldn’t be bothered by the annual love poem fair. Alas, Shelly, the silver twinkle that fell to heaven with a heaving bosom of romance has asked that I attend and showcase my self alleged love poem skills. Of course I comply and by the time we hear the word “feelings” and “thighs” I am running to the nearest bucket room looking to puke half of my soul.  The bucket room attendant is not helpful. I’m sorry, he says. This bucket is reserved for those who are sick from the poetry, not the stomach flu. Please, I beg. I need to puke so bad. I end up puking all over myself. I go to find Shelly who is not impressed by my new look, or my new smell. If you didn’t like love poems, she says, why didn’t you just say so? I go home and turn all the lights off and sit in the blackness. Black, I murmer, black like my soul.

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Posted in: Year 1: Comfort