I realize I have not been posting anything in this category for a while, and really, it is just because things between Edgar and I have been sort of up and down lately.
I’ve really no complaints, except perhaps about his seemingly sullen silence in the last few weeks, but must admit that I prefer it to the rather delirious and demented diatribes he tends to fall into once he petulantly ponders my prosaic and finds me sadly lacking in his opiumed opinion. He claims I’ve gone post modern (or at least, “made such sad attempt”) without a thought to story, alliteration, mood and elegance.
He nearly had a case of vapors o’er my “gonnas” and my “haftas” and only once this week has smiled despite himself while reading as I typed. That too, it seems is but a thorn I push into his side; ”A quill!” he shouts is what I should be using.
Meanwhile as I type, one eye on the monitor, one on the open Thesaurus and dictionary both, my third upon a frowning Mr. Poe, I note the dictionary page is open to Leitrim through lepton, and spot with but a glance the name “Lenore.” How strange is that, I think, but then he cares more than he shows, or at the very least, a little still. Enough, I suppose to not have forsaken me and my feeble attempts at prose completely. I hope then that this is merely passing mood.
But then again, it is mid-May, and he has not in word nor manner made inquiry of me or let slip subtle hints in rare but valued conversation as to his wishes, nor my plans and so I fear I may be dateless for the senior prom.
(NOTE: If I’m to have Roget’s by my side, I sorely need a full-sized copy. The font herein is, no shit, one-thirty second of an inch high!)
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Sigh. Time is running out on my poh honky ass, so what I usually say when caring and support aren’t there is: “run, don’t walk, from negative people.”
Or, I could simply stuff him in a drawer. Edgar’s only 10″ tall.