Looking For: You, obviously. I don’t know what happened or why I’m here, but this whole thing is really messed up. I take back everything I said about American Girl Dolls. Just come and get me.
Dream Date: I was going to say something dumb and ironic like a long walk on the beach, but really – that would be great right now.
Best Memory: I was riding my bike through South Africa with the wind in my hair. That was also my last memory. Really any memories besides this one are cool with me. You like cheeseburgers, right? Do you want to get a cheeseburger? Or maybe some clothes. I love clothes.
Pets? Teddy can stay here.
Ideal Look: I don’t know what you were wearing when we broke up, but honestly even if you shaved your head and lost sixty pounds I’m cool with it as long as you show up. Seriously. I won’t even talk about your grandfather.
Here I am again. Hanging out on the street corner. Every year it’s the same thing. Someone strings me up on the lamp post and 5 hours later, someone comes back with a girl they position underneath me. “Look.” He’ll point. “We’re standing under the mistletoe.”
The girl will glance up. She will give me the same look she gives the someone beside her. Ah yes, I can hear her think. How did I end up here again?
I am the only mistletoe around for blocks. Yet everyone knows I exist. The lamp post, while beautiful in its own right, both resents and enjoys my popularity. At first, the pointing feels good. Basking in the glow of his own light, he feels a surge of pride from the strangers looking at us. Then comes the eggnog.
Early December is not so bad. The Christmas music is at a comfortable Mariah Carey intimacy. Mid December and the shoppers are getting more hectic. By late December, Perry Como has peaked and the eggnog, while once a disgusting choice of raw egg and cheap alcohol, suddenly makes an appearance.
Loud after-work parties and sloppy caroling seem to never end. The lamp post isn’t pleased. Teenage boys with dog-like tongues kiss the girls they like best. The lamp post glares at me. Come January first when I should be taken down, it’s just me and the post-Christmas post. Here I am again, wondering whether someone made it home with someone else.
I like to call it my glass pocket. The jar that holds scraps of paper, twisted, bent and floating to the top. Crinkled memories saved. Sketches of celebrities doing novel things in far off places. A picture of David Duchovny eating McDonalds on the Coney Island ferris wheel twirls in place. Diana Ross singing Stop In The Name Of Love to Isis.
Put a lid on it, they say.
But I can’t close my pocket. Its memories might shatter.