My Cardboard Balcony

Episodic by Belinda Roddie episodic sub-psychotic half-neurotic superstition, television on a mission to subdue men with derision, heated rage, bottled, caged, locked up in a super age of mega-ultra-uber-special Martians walking on a threshold of endurance, no insurance, rest assured they've got their courage, when the end is still in sight, it comes down to fight or flight.

"They've got some really short fuses, don't they?" asked Kyla. She was referring to the temperamental twin boys sulking in the corner, both of their crowns curling in syrupy cowlicks above their pale faces. Almost as if they were trying to be soft-serve ice cream cones. I stifled a giggle at the mental picture. "Yeah," I replied once I had composed myself. "I'll figure something out with them. Promise."

As we added the cream cheese icing to the cupcakes, a sudden thought struck me full in the temples and caused my ears to ring with the intonation of panic. "Kristi." "What?" I inhaled. "We forgot the red food coloring." I half-expected her to equally freak out in a similar, frozen manner - all in the eyes, not the body. But instead she laughed and kissed me on the cheek. "That's okay, dear," she said. "We'll call them 'Just Velvet' cupcakes."

"I like potatoes." "Okay, then." "No, I mean I really like potatoes. Mashed, scalloped, baked, boiled, whatever." "Last time it was cheesecake, John. Now it's potatoes?" "Drunks aren't picky. What comes to mind comes to mind." "You're particularly verbose tonight." "Liqueur makes me verbose. Beer makes me stupid." "John..." "It makes me stupid." "Okay..." " Very stupid!" "I got it." "So can we have potatoes?" "What?" "Can we have potatoes?" "I don't think we have those in the house." "Go buy some!" "Hell, no. You buy them." "I am not walking to the grocery store to buy potatoes!" "You're the one who said he wanted them!" "Yeah...but actually getting them requires effort." "I'm not getting you potatoes." ...

"The instructions are in German." I stopped making dinner for a brief moment. "What?" "The instructions," she repeated, gesturing at the flimsy packet of paper that was bristling in her hands. "For the radio. It's in German." "Okay, but is it in English, too?" "No." I tried again. "Spanish? French?" " Nada. Non. "

So many weeks never end the way they start. You begin with a meteorologist's migraine of sorts - high winds and heavy fog, cold and dreary versus sudden impending sun and heat and strain. That sort of weather message works metaphorically, too. It's been a rough week for me, not just work-wise, but creatively, too. Work itself is fairly mild compared to the mental fluctuations I've had. Being caught on the grotesque cusp of restlessness versus a calm desire to do nothing is a pretty ugly situation. Some days I just want to be a homebody, and other days I just want to abandon my house, swipe up my girlfriend, and go on some sort of random adventure. On the bright side, today was good. You find people who like you, no matter how hard it is for you to believe or remember sometimes. You have drink and good company, and in the end, it settles you. It lets your mind breathe. And now I'm going to let my mind breathe some more by having a glass of White Zinfandel and going...

Super by Belinda Roddie There was a superficial man who lived a superficial life With his superstitious mother and his supernatural wife Read the paper every morning and drank whiskey every night So lived this superficial man in his superficial life His wife tried to put a spell on him to put sparks in his eyes But her husband would not have it in his dim and weary light He was happy with the way he was, happy with his plight Said the superficial man to her in his superficial life Two years from then she disappeared with their supercilious son In a purple smoke that filled the room and poisoned old man’s lungs His mother shrieked and clutched her cross and died from simple fright So the superficial man was left alone in dark and solemn sight The supercilious son sent letters in a cool but loving air But his father would not open them, for he no longer cared He was happy with the way he was, happy with his plight Thought the superficial man as he lived his superficial life Then...