Please note – Throwback Thursday has been replaced this week.
By: Had Enough Thursday
Middleaged Cranky Woman Thursday.
 I Never Said I was A Nice Person Thursday.
None of these have the TH.
None have that nice alliterative feel I was going for…
but are essentially MUCH more truthful
Truthful Thursday? Truthful With A Spoonful of Venom? hmmmm…
Anyway, I don’t expect any of you to admit to ever feeling this way. 
You are all (gentle readers) kind and warm, 
deeply caring people who embrace humanity and all its little foibles with good humor and infinite patience.
I, on the other hand,
am merely a clot.
And I am content, 
I embrace my Clotness.
I own it.
Have a great Thursday. Or Don’t.
It’s entirely up to you…..

Whyne ~
You mewl to everyone….
Why won’t she speak to me?
She avoids my eyes
she won’t return my emails
tell me her plans
show me her photos
friend me on facebook
compliment my sweater, my hair, my certificate of overachievement 
why why…
Does anyone remember choice?
Must there always be an old tired list 
of excuses recycled and spit out like a chain letter?
I’m too busy
 too tired 
on vacation
 on sabbatical
emails are down
facebook glitch
mobile phone had no signal
sorry sorry sorry…
But I’m not. Not sorry, not one bit.
I don’t WANT to answer you,
I don’t want to look at you knowing
 that like a pebble holding the boulder in place
once moved the in-heat dogness of you is harder than dryer set superglue to shake off.
And you know what else?
I don’t care.
My teeth grind just hearing your girlish affected voice and that constant undermutter 
You ask why?
Then I will tell you,
because you are as cloying as a too-warm room crammed with rotting flowers
and as duplicitous as a high kicking chorus line of Januses.
I don’t like you. I don’t have to. Correctness and Politeness have sneakily robbed us of our right to not like.
Because you are annoying as fuck.
That’s why.

About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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