I Know Why The Caged Bird Kills Itself

I don’t feel like writing tonight. I was going to write some really bad poetry but the first one I wrote was wasn’t quite bad enough to wrap all the way back around to being good. I couldn’t get it to the Clash of The Titans or Showgirls point. It was just bad enough that if a movie was made about it Andie McDowell would star in it. I scrapped it and decided to write a sonnet about beer, and it was turning out well too, but iambic pentameter is hard. The whole point of the poetry was to get out of my self mandated post length, but I found it’s easier to just crank out three hundred words of whining than three quatrains and a couplet. Who am I, Soulja Boy?

This was a cold, rainy, crappy day. I hate rainy days. I don’t mind summer thunder storms – that’s thunder storms, not hurricanes – they’re over in an hour at the most. Today, I woke up and it was raining. It’s almost ten at night and it’s still raining. I could live in Seattle for about three days before I put a shotgun in my mouth. We couldn’t do anything today. It was a Cat In The Hat day, but the cat and his two Things never showed up. We were stuck inside with a two year old, who wasn’t bad, but none of us could burn off any energy. I was done with the laundry by noon. The kitchen was clean by twelve thirty. Netflix is pretending they didn’t get my movie, and I was grumpy for the rest of the day.

Netflix has a center here in Jacksonville, and I was working the system pretty well. I’d get a movie, watch it, and drop it in the mail the next day. I was getting three deliveries a week. I don’t think they liked it because the last two movies that I got, both of them taking an extra day to get here, came from Orlando. I think it’s a conspiracy and I’m starting a log to keep track of it.