What was I up to while we were locked-in?
I was busy contemplating sin.
I had months and months of moments to spend,
Ms chaste without, misdeeds within.

Lust, like seasickness - upends reason
and it burns like underbrush fuel.
So dust my DNA, and ID my ***** dreamin'
am I guilty of breaking some rule?

Thanks for saying “no offense” before insulting me
- that really cleared things up.

Kim has a hairless cat that looks like an old man with a wrinkled neck.

“Euuww, it’s bald.” I observed, when I first saw it.
“It’s hypoallergenic.” she says.
“I read that it’s the cat’s saliva, from grooming - not the fur that people are allergic to.” I instruct.
“What if you were allergic to your boyfriend's saliva?!” she wonders.
“Dang, that means a rash ALL OVER, I suppose!”
We noddingly agree.

Here comes school
again - so it's time for
some school Senryus.

Teacher: "This piece is
really good, what inspired you?"
Me: "the deadline date."

Hours of homework
are up next - 'cause seven hours
school just wasn't enough.

I've come to believe
that "studying" is a contraction
of "students dying".

Awkward moment: A
boy you don’t know that well says
“don’t I get a hug?”

My sister Annick fixed me, locked me in, with cold, blue eyes as she sat down slowly next to me at the table. “I’m a surgeon,” she said, not quite casually, “a board certified surgeon.”

I give her a questioning look.

“I could take your steak knife,” she says, eyeing it, “plunge it into your neck - and oh, sure, there’d be a question or two but in the end - I’d walk away clean.”

“I don’t think,” I start saying…

Tears well to near overflowing in her turquoise eyes. “I came in - officer” she says, sounding stunned and surreal. “She was having a convulsion, she exhibited severe cyanosis, I couldn’t clear her airway, it was a classic tonic-clonic seizure.” she goes on, her voice rising to near panic with the diagnosis.

“You’d never…” I start to interrupt but she gently covers my mouth with her left hand while gathering the handle of the serrated silver steak knife, expertly, into her right hand.

“I attempted to perform a tracheostomy,” she continues in a traumatized but professional voice. “but as I began a transverse incision above the sternal notch,” a tear rolls down her cheek, “Anais suffered a severe generalized-onset seizure and convulsed, forcefully into the knife”

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” I confess suddenly, as if under oath, in court.

There’s a moment of still silence.

“And WHEN,” she asked, wiping away the tear and turning the knife for a downward ******. “Were you going to MENTION IT?!”

“NOW! - before dinner!” I look around the empty room - for help - for a sympathetic jury. “It was an ACCIDENT! - I’m SORRRRYYYY!” I plead.

My sister slowly sets down the knife and says deliberately, purposefully - like a death sentence: “My Valentino sheer floral-lace top is STAINED.”

”I can FIX it!” I insist in a rush.

“Keep OUT of my room - and my stuff.” she grumbles, “And REMEMBER what I said,” she adds as she pats the knife before getting up and leaving the room.

“I WILL’” I promise to her back.

A second later, my mom sweeps in from the opposite direction.
“What’s up” she asks.

“Nothing” I almost whisper, head down.

My sweet little gran-mire is 94 Years old.
She still works, as the chairwoman of the family trust
- you can call her “Godfather.”

The “frail old lady” is a humorous disguise she dons
to bamboozle the unwitting - think tiger stripes.

Don’t be fooled, or lulled and don’t ever try to BS her.
The business cosmos wheels behind those eyes.
Her heart was replaced with an abacus, centuries ago.
She’s met everyone in the world who matters.
She has body guards and minions.

Tonight there’s a small birthday party
at the Musée Marmottan Monet (museum) in Paris.

When she comes in, the 40 or so guests formed
an impromptu receiving line - so I queued up too.

Stewards regularly pass and I manage to gulp down
two flûtes of champagne while on line (I LOVE Paris).
This has the makings of a great party.

Finally, it was my turn. we cheek kissed (fait la bise).  
I took her small, gloved hand in mine
and it struck me that little white gloves are genius.

“Thank you for inviting me,” I said
inching closer because the music was loud,
“Nothing tops a big-budget party.” I said.
“We agree.” she said with a nod.
“Happy Birthday.” I mouthe.
We la bise again and I moved on so the conga-line could progress.

Ooo! Another steward!

My best friends are “there for me.” Each, in turn, presents their partial list of people who’re upset with me - with my “social suicide” decision to opt-out of my senior year and go, instead, to university.

It seems that by forgoing 12th grade, I'm rejecting their way of life, attacking mass production or committing an act of terrorism.

I try to explain this obsession I have, since the pandemic lock-down, to get out and into the world.

The great pandemic isolation scraped away at me, left me feeling ransacked and empty. I can’t ignore the call of freedom any more than I could yank out my heart and continue living.

They can’t seem to hear me - it’s like I’m mumbling, speaking in tongues, or talking to myself.