Why can I not be C.C. Baxter, Paul Varjak, or even Harry Burns
(but not Phil Connors—I find Rita annoying)? Where is my turn
for a game of gin rummy and Moon River listened to on the fire
escape? I guess it all boils down to managing one’s expectations
since life is not a romcom; you could hardly call it drama, either.
It is more like a whole slew of footage that did not make the cut.
CCTV footage, I mean. But you know what? At least this time
it is you who holds the scissors.
If you roam around your place in nothing but an oversized white tuxedo sleep shirt
while holding a crystal goblet full of milk, you are my kind of girl—or everyone’s,
I suppose. I may even skip a ‘decorator’ as an excuse to meet you. Also, I am a writer,
just so you know—well, a poet, but a real one, and fortunately, not having a ribbon
in a typewriter is no longer an issue. Just please do not water my plants with whisky.
And yes, we are friends. We will be, even when one day, long after we find a ring
in a box of Cracker Jack and a name for the cat, instead of Fred, you start calling me
Doc.
hidden pilcrow 