My Friend the Poet

"Are you serious? You cannot be possibly serious?"

"I am. I really am."

Here I stand, listening to my friend reveal to me that she is about to drop out of degree program to pursue a career as a poet.

"But you're poetry isn't even good!"

"It's poetry. It doesn't have to be good. It just has to convey a message."

"Like what? I'm starving because I write bad poetry?"

"Oh you're just jealous!"

"Of your bad poetry skills?"

"Because someone has finally taken an interest in what I do and no one cares about you."

I believe that if we were younger, she probably would have taken some crayons out of her plastic hot pink box and thrown them at me. Or some equally hot pink barettes from her hair.

"I am just saying that you are so close to finishing and now you want to throw it all away. I would think about-"

"I have already!"

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I don't need to know. I already knew."

"How could you know when I didn't even know what I was going to say?"

"Well I...you're just jealous!"

And now ladies and gentlemen, we have entered into the Twilight Zone. For the next thirty minutes were are going to hear the same argument time and time again. Please keep all seats in the upright position and remember to tip your hostess.

"Let's just think about this for a second okay?"

Silence.

"You can put off going to California and living with the hippies while you write your poetry for once more semester. Just one more. Then you'll have a degree so that if anything happens to you, you can always get a job somewhere else that doesn't involve wearing a hair net."

If looks could kill, I would be dead. I don't think I have ever seen someone's eyes that sharp.

"You just don't get it do you. I want to go live over there so that I am freed of all this materialism."

"What materialism?"

"Our society is based completely on materialism. There is no more people helping people. Living off of nature."

"Who says so? I know I'm not materialistic because I don't have a dime to my name. All of my friends are materialistic and all of your friends aren't materialistic. So whose materialistic? Who has stuff?"

"You just wouldn't understand."

It hurts my head to think about what she's trying to tell me. I want to take her head, hit her hard, and then explain to her how her poetry sucks and how she should not be living with hippies. Maybe not in one sentence but I want to tell her all of that.

"They were especially happy to read my poem 'Night at the Inn'."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, very much."

For those who are just joining our program, 'Night at the Inn' was written inside of Waffle House at 1 in the morning. She was drunk, I was drunk, we all were drunk. And we thought it sounded great.

Next day it was read to us again. Sounded more like nails scratching against a chalkboard. A Math chalkboard.

"So you are really going to go?"

"Yep."

"And sell your horrible poetry for a living?"

Very hard stare, then nod.

"And live with the hippies?"

Nod.

"Can I have all your things here then? I mean, I just want to help you rid yourself of being materialistic."

"No! I'm taking it all with me. How could I possibly part with my Prada bag?"

And this ladies and gentlemen is the end of the Twilight Zone. Get your bags and leave. We have found out that our budding poetress cannot leave without her Prada bag. Score yet another point for materialism.

Materialism - 1
Living with hippies and selling poetry - 0

"Well. I guess I could stay here for a while. I mean, it is only one more semester."

"That's a good girl. Now I'll write to those hippies and tell them you won't be going. And we'll see about that poetry."

"Like getting it published?"

"Like finding a trashcan."