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Please Break Me

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I just want a normal day
Why do I have to get all the crazies?
I shouldn’t even be flying anymore.
I don’t know why they spend so much money just so I can get tortured.
I swear, you won’t believe what just happened to me.
I was going to Chicago with 14 teenagers and one elderly lady.
To me that seemed pretty barren for a plane trip.
The kids were making a helluva lot of ruckus, screaming about graduation and having a big party to celebrate and throwing their graduation caps.
I’ve never seen the flight attendants get so exasperated in my entire warranty.
The old lady was in the back; so far away I couldn’t see what she was doing.
I think she was tinkering on something, maybe a sweater or some socks.
What else would an old lady be working on?
I could hear her start spritzing something; I’m not sure what she was spraying
But whatever it was it stunk like a shindig at a nursing home.
Two hours into the trip, the teens begin to calm down, barely.
Now, here’s where the madness began.
The old lady gets up and begins to meander around.
The teens, who were just as confused as I was, looked at her, looked at each other, then back at her as she slothfully made laps around the rows.
After about fifteen minutes of walking, she stopped in front the chairs and looked around, as if she was an actor preparing for her first line.
She reaches into a big leather purse and pulls out a heavily embellished sweater.
A sinister look creeps onto her face, lowering her brow and deepening the shadows over her eyes.
She then glares at one of the students and points a crooked finger.
She tells the kid “Do you see this?
Do you see this sweater, Bob?
I have been knitting this sweater for over thirty years Bob. Do you see this fabric?”
Stay with me because it gets weirder.
“It’s made from the fleece of a Swedish/Norwegian sheep that live on a farm that’s on the border of both those countries.
I have been making this sweater for my daughter’s thirtieth birthday ever since she was born.
The day after I gave her this sweater, I got a call from the hospital saying that my daughter had suffered from violent convulsions and passed out. Immediately, I rushed to the hospital to see her.
What I saw wasn’t my daughter.
Lying on that bed was a skeleton…
a skeleton with skin, and muscles, and hair.
It wasn’t my daughter.
It was the local cat lady, Harlette, who was getting her weekly force-feeding of people food, since she only dines with her cats.
I had walked into the wrong room.
My daughter’s room was next door.
She was gaunt and pale.
I just knew she was dying.
The doctor walked in and told me that she had contracted Leukemia, Bulimia, and Aboulia!
Flabbergasted was I!
I asked the doctor how this could have happened.
He told me she had had an allergic reaction to a certain fleece that she had recently come into contact with!”
She threw herself to the ground and bellowed a hearty moan.
At this point, I had completely lost interest and was now focusing on the soothing hum of my large turbines.
They always made any horrible flight bearable.
Unfortunately, for some reason the old lady decided to continue and ruin my peace.
She quickly stood to her feet and composed herself.
She looked back at the perplexed boy and said
“She had such love for her mother that she was still wearing that sweater and suffering for it!”
She took out a lighter from her purse.
“This is all your fault Bob!
If you hadn’t sold me that fleece on that fateful Wednesday
thirty years ago my daughter would still be functional!”
Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
“My daughter.
My only daughter, and you killed her!
I’ve laced this sweater with nitrogen threads and sprayed it with my favorite perfume.
When I ignite it, this plane will plummet to the earth and you’ll all be destroyed just like my poor daughter.”
Suddenly one of the teens stood up and announced
“I didn’t sign up for this s#!t!”
Then proceeded to dive out of my emergency exit
in a suicide attempt.
She resumed her destructive plot and lit the sweater on fire.

I really hope they don’t fix me this time.



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surreality said...
Dec. 19, 2011 at 12:48 pm:

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You have a kind of off-the-wall creativity. I dig it. At times, though, I wasn't sure what was going on. Be off-the-wall, but be clear. I'm not saying that your poem was bad, it was actually really well crafted in my opinion.

 
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