By MD Wheatley
“Hullo, good afternoon potential future friends, you can call me MD, as in medical doctor, or Mountain Dew. Funny, heh? I think so too. I grew up on Mountain Dew. Anywhoozle, thanks for joining me here today in Conference Room B. You could have easily gone to A but instead you chose B and I love that because I would’ve done the same. I’ll BE your friend. OK, I’ll chill. As I’m sure most of you can tell, this is my first time here and I’m happy to be here. The pamphlets instructed us to do all sorts of things, like share interests, personal qualities (good and bad), show-and-tell-type objects, to which I defer all. Truth is, my interests are likely going to bore most of you, and tomorrow I may wake up interested in the synchronicity of fishing and Battle Royales, if I even wake up tomorrow. Nice, OK, some of you are walking out. Just so you know, the dude in Conference Room A eats raw eggs and doesn’t believe in sunscreen. Have fun losing your new friend to skin cancer at 35! Shit, where was I? Sorry, I chew my nails when I lose my train of thought. Choo choo! Uh, I like Morrissey. I like cassette tapes. I like live music. Have you ever surrendered your body to live music? No? Me neither!!! I like skating. I like reading. I like reading books. Short books. Sorry, talking to myself out loud here. Um, I like esoteric shit. I learned that word like a year ago. Pretty dope word. If you know, you know. I like to think of myself as Dave Masters from the beginning of Stoner by John Williams. You know, before he died in the war. Or the protagonist in Good Old Neon. Neal’s ghost. Good old Neal. And whether you know either of those references or not is besides the point. The point is, I said it. I confessed it. I confessed to a self-diagnosis. And given the time and space, I could diagnose you. Hell, I could diagnose all of us, but what do I know? What do you know? You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. We think we know each other, but who are we fooling? No one. We are the fools. I planned to stick to the script but my note cards got all jumbled in my pocket. Out of order. So, instead, I’ll share with you a poem I wrote because that’s all I know to do. To share a feeling in hopes someone will nod their head in agreement. Sometimes the moon looks like a fingernail. Nice, I see you nodding over there. This one’s for you, buddy. It’s called I Need More Friends To Love Unconditionally, I’m a Really Good Friend, I Promise, Will You Be My Friend? You’re not as tough as you think you are … a blender can still nub all 4 of your fingers quicker than you can say W-T-F … what’d you think was gonna happen? … that your skin was too thick? … your bones made of steel? … it is true though … I kept one of your fingers as a souvenir … right after I asked you to save all of em … which was right after I asked, why’d you do that? … this isn’t high school anymore … you can’t just run away … or not show up … everyone that knows you now … is always gonna know you. Ah frick, sorry. I cry easily. Give me a second. I’m not smelling my armpit, promise. Where was I? Oh yeah, the poem. Everyone that knows you now … is always gonna know you … is always gonna remember that you stuck your hand in a fucking blender … a goddamn blender, Jesus … the sad thing … or funny … or maybe it’s a good thing … is that I’ll always love you … and you know that … I think that’s why you do such stupid shit … because you know I’ll always love you no matter what … and the sad reality is … if you live a life of self-destruction that ends with an entire hand of nubs … I’ll never question you or wonder why you did that to yourself … instead I’ll ask myself … how could I have loved you better? … how could I have saved you? … because here’s the hard truth, OK? … sometimes you wake up before dreams get to the good part … and sometimes you fall asleep before life gets to the good part … Wow, thank you, thank you. I’ll wait a second. Thanks for the love. This is the part where I wrap things up. So, if you’re interested in getting to know me better, I’ll have a newsletter sign up sheet at my booth. It’s back and to the left. I know it’s rude to point, but which way to the little poet’s room? I really, really have to pee. Before I began I thought it was just nervousness but I legit have to piss like a racehorse. Please excuse me. Thanks for your time. OK sweet, bye. Or see you—ooh here comes the pee. Imagine saying bye for eternity..”
MD Wheatley’s a husband, father, and writer living in Charleston, SC. Read more here—mdwheatley.us