My Cardboard Balcony

Alas! The Algorithm by Belinda Roddie Alas! The algorithm has been changed, altered, mutated so that my sweet works of fiction do meet as wide a range of readers as they once did. Aye, the jerks of social media have put an end to my monthly average, thousands of views, sliced it in half - nay, more than that! Amend this, I think they will not. It's all been skewed - chronology be damned, order revoked, and formula converted into ruin. I know that any irritation stoked by this shall be ignored, so I am doomed to have my poetry bless no one's eye - unless I'm forced to - gulp! - diversify.

It's finally November, so I want to be direct with you: I don't want to come see your in-laws for Thanksgiving. I know that might frustrate you just a little bit, but I'm tired of seeing your mother's red "MAGA" hat, and I hate listening to hearing your father chew loudly with his mouth open. And for the love of God, don't even get me started on your sister, who's decided that she needs to scream at the TV every time the Pikachu float shows up during the Macy's parade.