Because Judy Blume Rules Us All.

This shall also be short, dear readers, as I am traveling as well, and really can express anything no better than Pat Benetar in the video posted below. Seriously. If you haven’t seen The Legend of Billie Jean, go and rent it or Netflix it or whatever the hell you have to do to get it, get it NOW.

I wonder if the key to this poem, and to what quickly appears to be becoming my Self Help Series, may be that I learned almost everything about life from four sources: The Legend of Billie Jean, H.R. Puff N’ Stuff reruns, Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” video, and, most importantly, Judy Blume’s Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. This book was pretty much my Bible for most of my adolescence. I remember using this book as a holy guide, to the point of hiding it in a special corner on the top shelf of my closet, only to pull it out when those embarrassing and (sometimes literally) burning questions which tend to arise between the ages of 10 and 16 arose. Imagine my horror, dear readers, upon starting my period one morning, having only recently turned 11, before my mother could give me The Talk, and reaching into that dark and sacred corner to consult The Holy Blume and finding — Horrors! Egads! Oh, Gods! Sanitary BELTS? Seriously? Let us all thank the Kotex corporation for taking us beyond the advice of the Good Blume Book. And let us turn our attention to this poem, and to performing strange exercises whilst chanting we must, we must, we must increase our bust.

A Self-Help Guide to Finding Yourself Drunk on Wine Coolers and Once Again Turning to Judy Blume for Advice about Boys

Don’t drink too many of the Margarita flavored wine coolers.  Really.

I cried ‘cuz you were doomed.

I should tell you that I am still out of town. Not only is it difficult to work on a Macintosh (see my previous post), but I’ve found it extremely difficult to write in a largely unfamiliar place. I’ve found it even more difficult to write something vaguely coherent while in a largely unfamiliar place. Perhaps I place too much importance on the safety of ritual (though Orpheus wouldn’t find the ritual below very safe, now would he? I always did have a soft spot in my heart for the maenads).

Whenever I find things difficult, I think about drinking. Whenever I think about drinking, I write about drinking. Though I no longer drink. Strange, strange. Very strange. See below.

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I have it but it hasn’t got me! I possess it, but I’m not possessed by it!

My hideous deceits would fill your offices

[and the rest-of-poem is out filling your cubicle with styrofoam peanuts. hooray!]