September 04, 2008

Snrrk.

Autumn. You know I love you. I speak of your love year-round, waiting, planning, dreaming of orange. My love is constant and pure. You are every bit as delicious as the Pumpkin Spice Latte that heralds you into my life every September 1st.

But we need to talk.

I try to be a respectful lover, Autumn. We’ve been together for so long, we realize that any problem we have is not a threat, but rather an opportunity to grow. With that in mind: why do you insist on bringing your friends along with you? You know how I look forward to our time together, and yet I am forced to share it with characters whose company I don’t enjoy (and who are, frankly, holding you back).

For instance: Mold. I’m sure you had good times back in the day. He understood you when daylight savings blacklisted you. He was there for you when everyone else wore flip-flops in stubborn protest, and the rainy afternoons with the curtains shut playing Halo will remain one of your fondest memories. But you don’t need him anymore. Let him go. Open those curtains, my love, and activate the dust-vac of our future. And, I’m sorry, Mold’s little brother is out as well. If you keep letting Mildew hang around, he’ll never leave. Introduce him to some new people. I suggest my friend Tilex.

Now, I don’t mind Ragweed (as long as he quits putting his feet up on my coffee table); he’s got a bad reputation, but he’s not really a bad guy. My problem is those stupid stoner douchebags he hangs around with. What the hell kind of a gang name is “pollen,” anyway? It’s like he’s babysitting this group of thirteen-year-olds who laugh at those “sphincter says what?” jokes—he smiles, but you can tell he doesn’t think it’s funny. That’s endearing… up to a point. And that point is taking bets on how many times in a row I can sneeze.

This may seem sudden, but understand I have suffered in silence as long as I could. I bought an air purifier—Febreze, neti pots, hepa filters. I wrapped my pillows in plastic. I convinced myself it was all for you, switching to a daily Claritin, then two, then Allegra—eventually collapsing into bed under the weight of my swollen face in a Benadryl haze. I was never sober. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.

I’m not blaming you. I love you for what you are. I can handle your mood swings: the ninety-degree evening followed by a crisp frosty morning; a bitter, torrential rain out of a cloudless Tuesday afternoon. This is who you are, and I wouldn’t have you any other way. But these inferior hangers-on of yours have to go. They do not dictate your life, not anymore. You can be better. You are better. Do I not still whisper my sweet nothings to you after each hit of inhaler? Do I not still fling open my windows to you every night knowing full well I will sound like Snuffleupagus come the dawn?

We have so little time together, my love. Think how much nicer it will be for us to cuddle under my duvet without the wads of Kleenex, the pointy silver pharm foil, the wayward empty water bottle. With all the extra space in the bed, there might be room for a third. Salman Rushdie? The Dalai Lama? Terry Pratchett? The possibilities are endless. Think about it.

[sniffle] Tinking ub yoo,
Sarah

3 comments:

Mamaclsn said...

I thought I was his favorite. *sniff*

If he needs someone else, I'm glad it's you. Love you Beed.

Genieve said...

You. Are. A. Genius. I'm yet again, blown away by your talent!

Sarah Beedoo said...

You big silly. Bring your baby to my house so we can eat pie already.

Um, those two aren't related. I mean apple pie.