Happy Friday, darlings! My name is Mel, and I blog at I Pick Pretty, where I have an irritating habit of calling people “darling”. Like Miss Coconut here, I recently moved to Austin but originally hail from Southern California. Although I adore my new hometown, I’m a California girl by nature, nurture, and blonde highlights addiction. Nevertheless, on my blog I ramble on endlessly about my life as a thirtysomething newlywed, lady lawyer, and, most recently, mom-to-be.
The excruciatingly lovely Miss C – who I sincerely hope is off having a kickass time playing boozy shuffleboard on her cruise – agreed that I could, ahem, “recycle” an old post of mine here, my being completely full of crap, not to mention lazy such a green Austinite and all. And so I bring you a recent favorite, by which I mean “yet further proof that I’m an idiot”. Please note that in keeping with the spirit of The Coconut Diaries, all previously redacted swear words have been reinserted.
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While procrastinating last night over a blog post of actual, yet highly dubious, substance, I spent no small amount of time over at that procrastinator’s paradise, Twitter. A mere mention there of haiku sent me scurrying to my sentimental archives, a overstuffed bag spilling over with cards and diaries and other detrius of friendships and relationships past and present.
A few minutes later, I located the goldmine – heartbreak haiku! – lodged in the depths of a twentysomething journal. Not to bore you with personal detail, but this bout of Japanese-style poetry came courtesy of a long-time former boyfriend, he of the dating archetype that we all should go out with at least once while in our twenties: he was good-looking, he was wildly interesting, he was an utter commitment-phobe. A fantastic guy in many aspects, but not my fantastic guy. When the inevitable breakup came, it came after 2 years of much sturm und drang and heel-dragging and dramatic! breakup! speeches! You know, the usual.
What could be more self-indulgently meta than bringing you bad breakup poetry on an already self-indulgent blog, you ask? I have no idea! But while I try to sort through this other post, I may as well embarrass myself with howlingly bad haiku for your amusement.
Delicate ones, please cover your eyes or just skip to tomorrow’s post if you can’t bear saucy language. Forgive me, but in the throes of breakup agony, I took leave of my inner feminine censor. Brace yourselves:
I fucked it up bad /
the boy I left has left me /
closeness made us part
And just in case that doesn’t pain you sufficiently . . .
Big, shiny diamonds /
the promise of forever /
rocks can’t comfort shit
GHASTLY almost to the point of being awesomely terrible, no? This, dear ones, is why you must pinky-swear that you will never, ever throw away your old diaries. After all, a girl never knows when she’ll need to humiliate herself on the web for the delectation of her readers. And there is no faster way to feel better about the aging process than to see in written form what a complete nitwit you were back when you had no wrinkles and cellulite to fuss over.
