Someone has entered me into the karaoke contest for the company Christmas party.
It wasn’t me.
This is what you get when you sing along to the Christmas music that’s being played over the loudspeakers.
My suspicion is Ron. But it could also be my friend Sandy. Or maybe Jen.
I feel a bit like Harry Potter being entered into the Triwizard Tournament without his knowledge.
HR says that I can remove my name from the contest, but I think I will let it stay. I mean, let’s get overly dramatic or anything.
Seriously, that is my favorite book of the series. I even wrote a fanfic about it where I ship Harry and Cedric without excluding Ginny eventually, because I remember seeing it in the movie theater and walking out and thinking: what. the. hell. so. much. UST.
UST=unresolved sexual tension. Rhymes with lust. It’s a big thing in fanfic.
Then I went back and re-re-read the novel and took notes and decided that the text doesn’t exclude the possibility of a gay teenaged love interest between the two.
None of which, of course, has much to do with why I am posting.
First off, hello! I survived Black Friday as well as Gray Thursday (that’s what I’m calling Thanksgiving night shopping mania). I got a 15% discount card for a one-time purchase and I bought a recombitant stationary bicycle.
I am going to have to reorganize my room to set it up, but I’m excited.
Also, I have fallen in love with aloe socks.
My ex-husband and father of my child. His birthday is during this time of year. It stings a little to think about. I wrote this poem about him during the Thanksgiving Break when I wasn’t working my socks off.
This poem states that I still love him, and I do… in a way. But my love for him is locked away and frozen, and I doubt I will ever totally experience that emotion again in this life.
I used to give him hickeys on his collarbone when we were dating. Honestly, it seems like that was someone’s else life.
So. fucking. sad.
This is why you should never get drunk and slap your wife around. Because the only thing you’ll find when you sober up is a broken marriage and an empty house.
Still, there were good days. To that end, this poem.
I’ve seen the horns on his head,
and I am done with looking for his wings.
his bad temper I still dread,
but, oh, how my love for him still sings.
that slim arc upon his chest
anchored a feathered mechanism.
I’ll honor him at his best,
not at the point of wedded schism.
that bump once wore a love bruise
before Heaven rotted into Hell.
I had no choice but to choose,
but I still lost more than I can tell.