One of my very best friends, Kate, has always encouraged my writing. I love her for it … except that she is also a pack rat and saves everything.
This means that I occasionally receive text messages from her that contain cringe-worthy notes, essays, or newspaper clippings from our college paper accompanied by: “Look what I found!” Or, “Did you write this? It looks like your handwriting.”
YES … I wrote that terrible essay linking fruit flies to the church service requirements at our private, Christian university. Let’s never speak of it again.
YES … I also wrote that opinion piece about Oatmeal Creme Pies. Can you just burn that one?
YES … I wrote that shit, and that shit, and that shit. It’s bad — all of it is so bad — proof that even if you’re born with a talent YOU STILL HAVE TO WORK REALLY HARD AT IT TO GET BETTER.
Most recently, I texted her back and admitted that yes, this trippy poem with the mispelled title was also written by me.
Funny, I don’t recall doing drugs at Bible college. Maybe I was high on life or religion or something. Maybe I wrote this as a joke, or someone dared me to write something that rhymed in under a minute and I scribbled this out as they timed me.
It’s probably that.