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Third-Degree Thursday

Flaming Tater Tot

I’ve been in pain the past couple days. It started on Tuesday. I was eating tater-tots. I do not care if you are four or eighty-three; tater tots are magnificent. They are like the french fries east coast cousin who is too hood for fast food. Anyway, I had just excavated a handful from the pan of sizzles upon which they rested.  I took one of the golden brown potato marshmallows and tossed it back. Figurative tears began to stroll down my cheeks. (Us real men are not criers; we’re BAWLERS. Oh…wrong type of ballin’.) They were tater-HOTs. I refrained from burning the roof of my mouth by quickly gulping it down my throat. There was no spitting it out; I was already committed to the feud. Upon me doing so, the burning sensation followed. It felt like Courtney Love was parading around my esophagus, it was a HOT mess. When the tater tot finally settled in the pit of my stomach, I knew irrefutable damage had been done. Unlike a rough whiskey, I had literally burned my throat. Hence the title: Third-Degree Thursday.

If I was a prostitute, my oral presentation would be shot shot shot shot shot shot; everybody! It hurts to swallow, and I may have blistered the lining. This is a newfound phenomena for me, but it will not be forgotten. Well, that is until the pain goes away.

Is that not curious? We have all eaten something well before it has reached an edible temperature. Some of us may have taken a bite, achieved that conclusion, and continued to engulf the food. We have all suffered the mouth burns, maybe some of us with lip burns, but that’s unrelated. The fact of the matter is, we are creatures of habit. A hot cookie is a tasty cookie. I’m not waiting for it to harden like my heart. Bagel bites need to be eaten straight out of the microwave. I do not have five spare minutes to blow on them like a chump. That’s why I am using the microwave. (Note: That’s not really why I am using the microwave. I am just a horrible cook, and processed bagel bites in the microwave is the salient option.)

I guess what I am really advocating is for people to stay away from burning sensations. Wear a condom.

Wait…

That’s all wrong.

Stay away from hot food, keep it above the throat. Otherwise your esophagus will say esofuckthis.

The Right Way?

Yesterday was my day off from work, but it was not my day off from thinking. Unlike milk, too much thinking does not do a body good.

A major change is upon me and I am experiencing second thoughts. I am doing what I feel is economically and educationally the right decision, but it is not justified in every category. There are important aspects of my life that may dissolve. I do not know if I am ready for the consequences of my actions.  This is a life-altering choice and I need it to be the right one. I hope it is the right one.

I already feel as if I have lost something, and the change has not quite come to fruition. I do not know if I will ever be able to regain what it is that I lost. It is just…tough.

This change has caused me angst and pain. I feel that it is the best decision for me, but is it?

This is one question I have no answer for.

In the Poem of My Hand

Writing is a tool of expression. I can write whatever comes to mind and it is easy. That is how I use to approach poems. That is the way of the past. For me, writing a poem is difficult. I want the structure and elegance that I see portrayed in the various poems I read, and yet, it takes more from me to achieve that then it does with writing. A blog may take an hour to write and edit. With a poem I continuously debate its progression. The final production could come a week or two later.

So, I tested myself. I placed ten minutes on the clock and challenged myself to write a poem. I had no subject matter in mind. Whatever happened happened. Here is the result:

To me poems are like the blues. They are meant to be demonstrations of anguish. It is easier to express pain and agony in a poem. Blissful poems are difficult for me to write for this reason. So judge as you may, think what you will, and do what you do. This is my ten minute poem.