Reaching into my brain . . .

Awaking from a hard-slept post 4 o'clock nap to a 9:30 world. Amazed that the helium balloon from my birthday still exists. It used to float around, but now it just hides under my dinette set. Father's Day. Oh, Father's Day. And to realize I lack the least of things, a card. I'm envisioning a nearly empty, picked over WalMart card section. Last-minute Father's Day card buyers as the vultures to the Father's Day card carrion. Obsessed with Beyonce's "Halo": It's like I've been awakened / Every rule I had you breakin' / It's the risk that I'm takin' / I ain't never gonna shut you out . . . I guess that's to my undiscovered angel. I can see his halo, halo. I can see his halo, haloooo. The cynic in me would rather "nonexistent angel," but I'm telling it to shut up. And my heart sinks when I'm reminded of the mean-eyed compositions that lie dormant, ungraded in my NPR bag. Ah, who cares that you listen to NPR? They're just a buncha liberals. Did you know that Obama's a secret Muslim Islamo-fascist-Marxist who wants to gay marry baby killing trees? Right. And that brings me to my red pen. Yes, that's why my compositions remain ungraded. My red pen needs a break after massacring the last exams. Friending me on Facebook does not get you extra credit, buddy. And leaving quasi-flattering messages on my wall in semi-grammatical Spanish doesn't do the trick either. And I love the funky clogs you bought me, Auntie. It's just that one of them creaks when I walk. It's one of those things you don't discover until you're walking down a long, silent hall.