Situational Existential Poetry

It’s a most curious kind of bother

That for my idle brain is now fodder

It’s existential, and in a timeframe

When my work causes me to forget my name

So I turn up here and you can call me Matt

I’ll stand before you and blurt out scat

About a ghost story and majoring in math[1]

And shameless plugging about joining my lettuce appreciation frat.[2]

That giving me freedom would become a problem

Was a perpetual issue that bugged my mum

At the very bare minimum,

She figured my floormates would hear a midnight strum

Or quite possibly the new tribal drums

That I would read about in the history library,

And enrol as the lead dramatist

In the science fiction drama with a plot twist;

That I’d turn minimalist

And live and die by the ice cream stick

And my vitamins be damned

And the meal plans a scam;

And my professors’d be in for an amusing shock

To see me stumble in asleep at nine o’ clock

If I ever made it on time, of course

An upside down map being my sole source

But so far, I’ve kept myself on form

And while I’m wondering if it’s the calm before the storm, 

I’ve a most curious kind of bother:

I’m turning into my mother.

[1] A long, wonderfully written story. I may explain it someday, or simply allow you to enlighten yourself (albeit partially) with this here: embrace nirvana.
Full reveal: he couldn’t have hidden in the “angle of the tower” without his math degree. And without him, Reznikoff wouldn’t have been a legend.

[2] Another long story about a lettuce appreciation club my friend and I are going to start. Devil’s in the details out shortly. Stay tuned for future updates.

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But I doubt I’ll ever stop being immature enough to enjoy doing this.

Frigid Thoughts

It seems to me that I’m most tolerant of the winter in the midst of summer.

I can’t stand my freezer these days. For the first time, I’m resenting the cold blast I get when the door opens. My key to the Arctic. Beloved zero degrees. Clear ice. Being able to see the flow of frigid air, seeing the air move without infrared glasses or playing god or inhaling nitrogen vapours in the chem lab about two seconds before you set off the smoke alarm.

I’m not looking forward to it. I opened the freezer cringing. Safe to say there was no ice cream in there either. I’m not even in a bad mood, but I wasn’t anticipating anticipating a cold blast and the following break out of neurotic signals on overdrive with my arms trying to tell my brain, “Boss, it’s cold! What now?”. My brain normally just responds with “Yeah, it’s cold. Just chill. And I like it when you call me Boss. The skeleton I sit in doesn’t seem to realise that fact all too often. Especially not inside exam halls, if the records hold any weight.” This time, it just grunted and muttered, “shit.”

I normally enjoy the cold. I yearn for it during the summers. The opposite never happens. I intuitively know that I’d just be happier being a frozen popsicle than a barbeque charcoal going red.

My reputation is at stake. The snow jackets are laughing in my face. This is no way to be prepping for the winters.

‘Winter is coming’, I suddenly see the phrase in a new light.

I want my old ice loving self back.

If this rant bored you and you got stuck on the thought of ice cream in the freezer and eventually graduated to more sucrose-laced thoughts (sucralose for those of you on diets?), here’s a drawing of the chocolate biscuit and Oreo and milk and Coke can aisle of the grocery store.

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 The hand is definitely mine. Don’t ask how it’s possible to draw and reach out with the same hand, but I like chocolate biscuits too.

In the end, I’ve ranted and you’ve drooled before graphite choco chip cookie bags, so we all leave this page happy about having achieved absolutely nothing.

Have a great day!

Ice Creams Don’t Lie

When I was a kid, there was an advert on the telly about sugar biscuits “so soft, they’d melt in your mouth.”

Now, I may not have been the science kid I happen to be today, but back then, such a radical change, of food in the solid state to the liquid state, food that was not ice, (which I loved to melt in my hands back then) seemed quite incredible.

I bought a packet, insisting to my mum that there was definitely something special about them biscuits.

Then I proceeded to shove one biscuit into my mouth and wait for it to melt.

I waited.

Then I waited some more.

I thought of the woman (woman?) in the ad who proclaimed that it melted and closed her eyes from the sugar rush.

Five year-olds don’t have that much patience.

Where is my liquid biscuit??

For forty-five minutes, the sorry, soggy piece of baked flour sat in my mouth, getting wetter, more deformed, but STILL. SOLID.

It never melted, needless to say, and (thankfully) I don’t remember what happened of that biscuit. Maybe I finally ate it.
Maybe I didn’t. I’ll never know, because mum doesn’t remember this incident. Maybe she doesn’t want to remember?

Anyway, it’s shattering. They lied on TV, and this five year old fell for it too.

And that is why I like ice creams.

They begin, cold, fuming, solid, and really do melt in your mouth.

Because ice creams don’t lie.

Although, with this biscuit incident behind me, is it really a surprise that I’m not too particularly fond of food?