My Cardboard Balcony

Tonight, I got to play Cards Against Humanity with friends, drink tea, wrap presents, and recline on the couch while listening to smooth jazz renditions of Christmas music. That's what I want to focus on. That's what I want to remember. I want to enjoy the holiday season as much as I can. I hope all of you are having a calming and enjoyable December, regardless of what you do or do not celebrate. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.

Beast Hunting Versus Classroom Management by Belinda Roddie During my personal day, I decided to slay a dragon.

I didn't know if I should send her a letter, or fire out an e-mail, or try to communicate with her in any other fashion. All I knew was that I was madly in love with her, and the art of confession was not an easy one to master. I wound up saying nothing, stewing over my feelings, if only to make sure she was happy. She was married, anyway, and my stepping in and spilling my guts would have been more harmful than beneficial. I said nothing for six years. And after those six years, after her divorce, she asked me out for a drink.

Like Icicles by Belinda Roddie Like icicles, your breath descends in spikes and rises into towers in the cold room that we both are settled in. Your eyes have no flame as they gaze at me. We hold hands, but our skin does not generate heat. The windows are all frosted over, as the winter "wonderland" outside deceives - it is, instead, a merciless and vast realm of lifelessness. Snow has choked the hills; blizzards have reduced trees to sad, slumped renditions of themselves. The morning chills have turned the grass to pale, blue soggy lumps that don't even shine. I pull you toward me, but I cannot warm you. We both will freeze.

Sometimes, we went out. And sometimes, we poured out our thoughts over the occasional drink, spilled our guts like lime juice squeezed into a Moscow Mule, reminisced on what we pretended were better times. Sometimes, we walked until we couldn't see the street lights anymore, and it got so dark that you couldn't see your hands in front of you unless the moon was out. And we would listen to the tide. That cold, swampy tide, etching its love letters in calligraphy on the seaweed-strewn shore.

Christmas Ham by Belinda Roddie The salivation is endless - steam rises like desire. Cut me at least five slices I can gorge on, smothered with orange glaze. It will remind me of my senior year in college, when I still had friends, and we still hung up lights on trees, and cheer was still legal where I lived.