Pills

My prostate pill is failing. The urine flow test tells me that. My graph was unimpressive. Last year the flow was stronger.
A normal graph has a peak and falls off quickly. I had no peak and the fall off was long and drawn out. I did release more millimeters this year. Big deal.
My doctor decided to increase the dosage. I am determined to upgrade my performance next year. I want my urologist to be proud of me.
I take lots of pills, pills for diabetes, blood pressure, sinus congestion, cholesterol, prostate, inflammation, eye trouble, skin problems--you get the idea. I can swallow the really big ones with a gulp of water, but always have apple sauce ready just in case.
I can envision the day when I'll be sitting in a folding chair outside an assisted living compound, gumming oatmeal, grousing about everything. Meantime, I'll keep popping pills to ward off this scenario as long as possible. Plus, I have to eat food with them to prevent stomach issues. A perfect excuse for pizza.

Interruption

Something is wrong with David's breathing. He just wakes up gasping. I'm his wife, lying next to him, holding Sebastian. That's what I call my facilitator.
David is a good man, but I'm really not interested in him in that way anymore. I love Sebastian. He's always ready to please, never tires or becomes controlling. Never goes through the motions.
When David wakes up I try to calm him, hiding my frustration, gritting my teeth, as once again, my pleasure has been interrupted. I suggest he has sleep apnea and should be tested. He mumbles something, turns over and within seconds is snoring away. I try to subdue my moaning and spasms, as I grasp Sebastian. Once David leaves for work we have all day together, still not enough for a sensual woman like myself.
I've been thinking bad thoughts. If I can bring myself to use the pillow, I think I'm strong enough to push down and...no, that is not who I am. I can still have the security of a union with someone I no longer love, as well as the unabashed lust with my little facilitator. As long as they keep selling C batteries.

Weight Allowance

If you wish to associate with my circle you must bring weighty thoughts to the menu. We are engorged with gravitas. Our insights go deep; perceptions, ideas, concepts and opinions are literally ground shaking. You must deliver gray matter of that magnitude or be gone to a Judd Apatow movie.
No pop culture references (ignore above), no fragments, no rambling, no jargon. We speak in complete sentences, stick to the point, make full use of the vocabulary at our fingertips. We are weighty people, bursting with self importance. Dare you enter our bubble without creating a rippling impact and you shall be smote down with vigilance.
Only those who speak English as a second language get a break.
Is that clear? Well then, have a seat and prepare to engage. Tonight's topic: What exactly happens to dust when you shake out your dust mop?
Hands, please. We'll go in order.

Winter of my Mind

I lie in bed contemplating the depths of my despair. When I scroll down my Facebook page I am appalled by the lack of depth in the comments. Too many smiling faces on vacation, holding kids and pets. I have no kids or pets, take no vacations, seldom smile. I do not relate.
People are constantly informing me of their projects--saving puppies and kittens from euthanasia, creating compost heaps, protesting high ankle sprains in volleyball. Right now, my only project is to get off this bed and do something with the rest of my day besides watch old movies starring Ann Sheridan. The sun is shining, temperature about 60. Think. What should I do?
I could make out holiday cards in advance, except I never send any. I could send someone I don't like a present and make them feel guilty for not getting me one. I could go to the gym or stay here and wait for a door to door salesman. It is June and I'm in a winter state of mind. Maybe I should join a caroling group. I sense there's lots of hanky panky in those singing bands. Why not summer caroling? Boy, that couch looks good.

Now, Please Go

Alexandria, you have torn out my heart and flayed it in the harsh light of winter. My spirit is crushed, my will destroyed, my reason for living vaporized.
I offered you my being, my soul, my essence, and you took a sledgehammer to my sensibilities. I am human, with all the fragility that embodies. I am a fount of vulnerability and you manipulated my weakness to your own devious ends. You have stomped on my trust, spit on my loyalty, burped upon my honesty.
I opened myself to you, surrendered all my secrets, my passion, my most cherished beliefs. I shared the full range of my fantasies, all the colors of my dreams, the texture of my dramas.
My plans for us were dashed against the jagged rocks slathered with black foam from the waves of your disdain. You have eviscerated me, left me a shell of a man. Without you, it is a Godless universe I must face without hope of happiness or sense of worth. No philosophy will heal my wounds, no religion will create sense out of nonsense, no sunrise will blot out my despair.
And why? One lousy genital wart, and a small one at that. Leave me be. I'm begging you, remove yourself from my pitiful existence. Please go. Oh. I forgot. This is your apartment.

Bouillon Cube

My name is Ernie Bouillon and I'm pissed. I created the first bouillon cube and my patent was delayed by red tape. The concept was simple--toss a couple of my cubes into a bowl of soup and your sexual potency increases ten fold. My wife Eunice can testify to that.
I've kept my mix of ingredients secret all this time. I was pooh poohed by scientists in the mainstream. One night I had a few drinks at my local pub and blurted out stuff about my cube. Next thing you know, Pfizer gets in touch, making me a generous offer. But I wanted full credit. They refused.
So I turned them down. Well, they made their own watered down version, while I sold mine door to door to much ridicule. Adding insult to injury, they kept my name on it because it sounded classy.
Eunice is out of town. Last time I was alone I tossed a couple of cubes into lentil soup. Gave my pillow a workout all night. Good thing we don't raise livestock.

Clear Out Your Desk

Mr. Baxter told me I was fired. Unavoidable. Nothing personal. Cutbacks. Clear out your desk I have no family. All I had in my desk was Chloe, my rubber squeaky frog. Whenever I felt stress, I pulled out my frog and squeezed it.
Other loan officers objected at first. But, one by one, they each got their own toy. Bill got a panda, Georgette, a monkey, Karen a snake, Albert a parrot, and Antonio, a shark.
Some days all you heard was squeaking.
Chloe looked lonely in her little box. As I left for the final time, the others stood and saluted me by squeezing their toys. Vicious rumors I had cooties prevented them from hugging me. Marge, the receptionist, pressed her rhino, and Hal, the parking lot attendant, tearfully squeaked his rubber giraffe.
As I put the car in gear, I looked up and saw Mr. Baxter, gazing down, holding Ernesto, his lizard hand puppet. He worked its mouth as if to say good luck.I held up Chloe and squeaked my own message in return. Two words, but not good luck.