Lets Talk About Honesty, Baby

Yeah, that's me. #censored
Yeah, that’s me. #censored

That’s right, you salacious little morsel of verbal sexiness. You vixen of verbiage. You punchy pornstar of prelection. Honesty, this one’s for you.

I want you to know, Honesty, that honestly, I love you. I adore you because you were there when I wasn’t being myself and someone needed to make sure to remind me of who I am. I cherish you because we love to hear the truth when all that we know are lies. I dig your candor, and I treasure your stray from the common glib. I love you because you are everything our everyday speech tries to be, and because you make each and every one of us a better person.

I have to be honest, though, you honestly aren’t what we want. You must realize that it’s important to be disingenuous when speaking to someone. Frankness hurts feelings, and so dishonesty is the only way we can enjoy the proclivities afforded to us by any of our fortuitous circumstances. I love to eat good food, so when someone tells me they prefer someone slimmer, it hurts. Most people call that fat shaming. And honestly, Honesty, that’s why we avoid you. Standing at 5’7, I’ve been told by many women that they prefer a man who is much taller, I don’t like it. Is that considered height shaming? Probably, because some of us don’t like it, even if it’s the truth, we don’t want to hear it.

Some say the truth hurts, and the truth is, we don’t love you unconditionally, Honesty. I know it hurts, but you must understand that we only love you when your words sweeten our moods or brighten our days. We only love you when you lift our hearts and tickle our spirits. Most of all, Honesty, we don’t know that we even love you. So, I wrote you a poem, heavily inspired by the movie we love the most: 10 Things I Hate About You


We love the way you make us feel
And the way you make us smile
We love the way you look at us
Even how you love our style

We love your big dumb comments
And the way you read our mind
We love you so much that it makes us sick
It even makes us rhyme

We love the way you’re always true
We love you to the sky
Because we love it when you make us laugh
Even more because it makes us try

But honestly, we love the way you’re not around
And the fact that you didn’t stop by
But mostly we love the way we don’t love you…
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

Sorry, Honesty, I was just being honest. For the sake of humanity, we cannot continue to lie about our relationship. If someone has to be honest, I only prefer them to say things I like to hear, that’s just how I feel. I know honesty is, honestly, about the truth and not about what we want. So don’t let someone tell me I’m not thin enough for them (fat shaming). Don’t let someone tell me I’m not tall enough (height shaming). Don’t let someone tell me I’m not pretty enough (face shaming) or rich enough (wealth shaming). Don’t let them tell me I’m not sweet enough or mean enough (personality shaming). Don’t let them tell me I’m not young enough (age shaming) or smart enough (intelligence shaming). Don’t tell us, don’t tell us, don’t tell us. We like to live the way we live, no matter what, no matter if it makes us feel mad or sad or generally bad. We don’t care… because honestly, we don’t want the truth. Not even a little bit, not even at all.

Sincerely, and with love,



To Kill A Mocking Rabbit

When worlds collide, Bugs just can’t help himself.

I wake up, and realize I must still be a little drunk from the night before. That’s my best explanation, anyway, because I had opened my eyes to a strange new world. I look up at the sky and see the man on the moon staring down at me. This isn’t pareidolia. It’s an actual face staring down with an alarmingly creepy smile. It’s even stranger that I have an inexplicable desire to kill Bugs Bunny.

I suppose I should be afraid of the moon or the fact that the world around me isn’t the reality I’ve always known. I mean, the night is blue, and everything has a cartoon quality to it. It still looks real enough, but light diffuses the surfaces unlike anything I’d ever seen. Add to that the fact the trees and grass in the meadow seem to dance without wind, and it all seems completely surreal.

Back to my desire to kill Bugs. It’s a desire I can’t suppress. Imagine an alcoholic surrounded by booze and everyone in the room encourages him to take a drink. That’s how I feel. I’m scared, alone, and in a strange place, and the only thing I have to cling to is this murderous craving. So what do I do? I pick up the double-ought shotgun that magically appears next to me, and set off to hunt a rabbit.

Unlike your typical reality, I don’t have to search very hard. In this new hybrid cartoon world, I start thinking about Bugs, and suddenly, I hear the earth quaking and deep roots cracking. A continuous mound passes through the field, and stops right in front of me. I know from experience as a kid what that meant. So, I point the gun, and out pops a giant grey rabbit.

His ears flop comically as he stares into the two barrels. He gives me a judgmental eye, and then reaches into the hole and pulls out a map. He opens it and says, “I knew I should’a taken that left turn at Albuquerque.”

“Yep,” I say, and pull the trigger.

The blast tears a hole through the paper, and a cloud of black soot obscures my view of the dead rabbit. When it disperses, there’s no body. Just a rabbit hole and a dead map. That’s when I feel someone tap my shoulder.

I turn, and Bugs leans on my shoulder as if we’ve been pals for years. He chomps down on a carrot and says, “Nya… what’s up, doc?”

“I’m hunting wabbit.”

What the hell did I just say?

He says, “But it’s duck season…”

“No, it’s wabbit season.”

“Duck season.”

“Wabbit season.”

“Duck season.”

“It’s—” I begin to say, but he plants a long distracting kiss on me. For some reason, I worry less about the giant rabbit raping my face, and more about why he smells like the latex mask of a Halloween costume.

Anyway, when he stopps kissing me, sit there in a daze. I finally come around a short time later, and the damn bunny is gone.

“Ooooooh!” I say in frustration as I squeeze the shotgun.

I cross the meadow and enter edge of the forest. I step carefully through that ticket, keeping a keen eye out for that rascally rabbit. After a short time, I come to a tiki bar with a suspicious looking man serving drinks.

“You see a giant bunny pass by?” I ask, specifically avoiding any words that use an ‘r’ because apparently I can no longer pronounce them correctly.

“No, sir!” says the man with a terribly dubious southern accent. “I ain’t seen no rabbit come through here. Care for a drink?”

“Okay,” I say as I ease onto the barstool. Picking my next words carefully to avoid my newfound speech impediment, I continue, “This is kind of an odd place to set up shop.”

“Nya, it’s a living,” he says, and that’s when I know it’s Bugs. “Thirsty?”

“Sure, surprise me.”

He sets two glasses on the counter and turns to grab a bottle of alcohol. He spends an absurd amount of time picking a beverage, but that gives me time to use the poison that magically appears in my pocket. After quickly draining the bottle with the skull and crossbones stamped on it, I toss it behind me just as he turns back around.

While he pours the drinks, I prop the shotgun against the counter. The drinks have an incredible amount of froth spilling from the top and an oddly animated sparkle.

He smiles a big buck-toothed grin at me, and I point at the trees behind a tiki torch. “What’s that!”

Bugs turns, and I wait. He turns around, and narrows his eyes at me. The trees rustle, still no wind. The napkins on the bar begin to fly away. He manages to grab the stack, but not before two squares float away. I turn to grab them, and hear a very faint clink of glass against wood. I smirk for a split second before turning back around.

I immediately claim my drink, and he grabs his. “Bottoms up!”

We guzzle the booze, and it tastes amazing. There’s no words in any language I know that could describe the flavor. It was a menagerie that reminded me of an orange and purple sunset over a blue field of grass where pink clouds hung in the sky while a soft melodic tune plays from no discernible source. It. Is. Heaven.

We stare at each other for a short time, and suddenly, he begins to choke. His eyes bulge large, and he makes a series of jerks. Then, he becomes stiff as a board, props a white lily on his chest, and falls to the ground dead.

I enjoy my victory, but I know it’s short lived. Growing up, I spent a lot of time watching cartoons. I know how their minds work, and to beat Bugs, I had to play by different rules. I had to use my humanity to kill him, and in doing so, I also had to kill myself. It was a small price to pay, but in the end as the world around me went black, I was happy knowing I also managed to rid myself of that desire to kill a rabbit after all.