Seven Up

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Note to readers: You may read this aloud. You may read this yelling. You may read this screaming. However, you are not permitted to be quiet about it.

Tell me the view you see from your window is real. My window is a software; it’s aerial sounds greeting me every morning is bound to be cliche at some point soon.

Tell me his “How are you?” is sincere. Hers wasn’t, nor was her accent stolen from Downton Abbey. There must be a better answer than “you alright?” when you’ve asked the same question in human language. When was a question an answer to a question even an acceptable answer. It’s a trick!

Tell me you’re not going to wear those same navy blue pants and white collared shirt to please Sir/Ma’am. My highschool uniform was left to dry, I never came back for it. I shall leave a three year old with crayons, some color please?

Tell me this meeting will end. We’ve discussed these points enough times for it to be translated into a playwright, a novel, a sequel to the novel, graffiti on the bathroom door, your mom!

Tell me you’re not taking a selfie right now. No, don’t. Don’t post that – social media doesn’t care if you drank your latte. Okay, too late. Your latte is famous now. And so is your quiche. Hooray.

Tell me your car is rental. FYI – my car is gold, not “sand colored”. Who taught you your basics? Circle. Line. Circle. Line. A, B, C. Let’s stop there, this is too much. Tick tock tick tock, I’m afraid your brain will reverse mankind ways.

Tell me my morning is good; you can tell me by being far away. You can tell me by not being there today. You can tell me by not being. You can tell me by not.

Tell me you didn’t lie through your teeth. Again? Let him be, let him be a sum of low blows – metaphorically and literally (Corporately?)

Tell me that laugh is real. I haven’t seen such a hostile smile in my whole life until I saw your reflection on the glass door of the fridge. I wish I was in that fridge; yesterday’s hummus seemed like good company.

Tell me I won’t hear another cuss word from their lips; hoodlums have lighter drifts.

Tell me she has a life, tell me you won’t take it.

Tell me you’ll take me slow so I can push you quick.

Tell me there’s nothing to all of this except that you are one fine prick.

Tell me you’ll stop telling me.

Tell me you’ll stop telling.

Tell me you’ll stop.

Tell me.

Actually, don’t.

This is all quite actual.


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