Stop Playing That Game

You can not call me Jack anymore.
You can not call me at 11pm
And say Hey Jackie Baby!
And talk to me about passion or religion.

You can not invite me over
And make my favorite meal
Then roll your eyes,
As if you don’t care
When I say I love it.

You can not open the door for me
Smile at me with your head tilted to the right
Or rest your hand on my hip.

You can not sleep next to me
And cuddle up close with your eyes shut
Pretending your movements are innocent.

You can not call me Jack anymore.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

I wrote that poems about six months ago and decided it might be more interesting to read than another post about family members on the verge of death, or my damn hand. Maybe I just posted them because I was tired of reading through my own sadness and narcotic-induced ramblings. I retired a number of posts to the vault tonight. While out of sight, they are forever preserved in digital format, as are your comments, which I am still grateful for despite having retired them by proxy.

Is that the correct use of the phrase "by proxy"?

I can't wait to find my space at Boston University's library. I am yearning for intellectual stimulation to such an extent that since I graduated from college, I lost almost all capability to read novels. I've happily ingested biographies of Saudi princesses and soldiers in Afghanistan, more than seven books on nutrition, metabolism and food combination, a history of the Forbes 400, a guide to relationships, poetry collections by Whitman and Neruda, and lots of travel literature.

Exceptions to the novel rule include the following: Vonnegut, Kundera, The Secret Life of Bees, The Arabian Nights, and some trashy romance novels.

Spent the evening trying to decide which classes I want to take at BU this fall. I have narrowed the possibilities down to eight (from fourteen). Wish my degree required more credits...