As promised in my last column (“Notes in My Phone: Part One”), I now present “Notes in My Phone: Part Two” (The Sequel), January 2020 through March 2021.
IUD or IED?
We want what we want when we want it.
E I E I. Oh? Oh! Ohhhhhh…
Bacon jam burger: cheese is good!
I got the urge to merge.
Hearts with nails.
Bio-debatable. Bio-beratable. Bio-inflatable.
Left foot humor.
Tattoos and beer, please.
The e-pissels of Paul.
Velvet lightening.
Altared states.
You’re too mean to die.
It all depends on Mama.
End times fun.
I ask nothing of you—only that you always speak to me clearly and true.
Jesus on a scooter.
The gift of my bifurcated mind.
Regrets grow tiresome.
Terminally Caucasian.
Zip ties, candles, vodka, lighter fluid.
The things people slap crosses on!
Sometimes they speak to you and they don’t speak to us.
Questions take away the smokescreen.
I’m making space to make the space.
Consistently erratic.
She says nothing in the most judgmental way.
You are the superlative I never called you.
There is no vaccine for racism.
Money won is so much better than money earned.
It’s a keto situation.
Totally open, responsibly guarded.
You were gone so long I got a dog.
Jenafauxpas.
Floor Matt.
Mattress ticking. Mattress ticking?
Flea bargaining.
The weapon is in the bush.
I can’t let these feelings show. I can’t let these feelings go. Mostly, I can’t let you know—how much I love you.
Love’s a double-edged sword.
It was nice to be normal for a minute.
Sometimes I look up in the sky and think someone up there might speak to me, but all I get is silence.
I could get lower insurance rates if I were more Afletic.
When someone tells you about something that happened “just the other day”, do you realize there are six “other days” to choose from?
There’s now a toilet paper that is three-ply. Can four-ply be far behind?
Guido Redneck.
Gas station Rose.
She prances on the clouds.
Gladiolas. Sadiolas.
Perpetually screwed up like me.
Pole-dancing on a street sign. Twerking on the Square.
I went to sleep with your name on my smile.
Whatever happened to DropTop Tallulah?
You came out of your grave to haunt me—
to flaunt in front of me all those things
I did wrong—
the women I had slept with,
the times I drank too much,
the lying and the cheating,
the false prayers, and,
worst of all,
the exaltations that came only from my lips
and not my soul.
…and that’s the View from The Balcony.
Randy Weeks is a Licensed Professional Counselor and a Life Coach. He can be reached at randallsweeks@gmail.com.
