At Wit’s End

I, like many other cynics my age,

Tend to feel that by Thursday or so I am completely drained

Of my energy and life.

It is a most devastating day, and until the sun sets, people like me

Sulk about in bomber jackets and Ugg boots,

So comfortable yet so miserable.

 

Dylan swirls the plastic glass in his hand

Holding it like it were some jewel-encrusted goblet

And claims that the wine has a lovely nutty bouquet and flavor.

I stare in awe and remind him that I bought the glass,

                                                                                                     no, cup,

From Target for $2.99 plus sales tax.

The response I receive is somewhat perfect;

A wrinkled nose, furrowed brow, and a flustered “Why, I never!

I stare blankly and take mental notes of how disgusted I’ve made him

By stating a fact he already knew.

 

Does the truth really hurt?

I like to think not.

Adults get together at “wine tastings”

To do this in such a

sophisticated manner. But in reality,

to get dressed up and pretend you’re going to be a part of high society

while you get drunk and society gets high,

They are locking themselves in a basement

In a group of five or six

And going somewhere underground

Amongst the vines that creep around wooden steeples and entwine themselves

About a cellar pole.

Most would think of this as somewhat of a French prison.

We have dresses, they have dresses.

We wear heels, they wear heels.

We wear masks of respectability,

Mere copies of theirs.

We have kegs; they have barrels. “Why you never.”

 

But just as we don’t really know what happens in their cellars,

They don’t see what happens in ours.

Girls become women,

Men become felons,

And the boys and girls and the music will still play, play, play.

 

Dylan says this isn’t true, that his parents

Are most respectable people and they don’t feel the tinge of burning in their throats,

Or slur their words even a little

When going out on the town.

Of course not.

“Why I never.”

Now you have.

Rachael Abrams

Rachael is a self-hating freelance writer that can bite through most things. She likes comedy writing, is an HBO enthusiast, and master of making inappropriate remarks seemingly on cue. She hates the heat and would probably live in an igloo if it were cold enough. You can find her on most social media, including her Twitter here.

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