Poet

“You are a poet,”
She told me,
And maybe words can make it so.
My pen blazes its trail
Heedless
Regardless
Careless
And yet
So
Very
Careful.
I’d like to be a poet
But I am an adolescent:
Ungainly, gawky, disjointed
Growing, perhaps,
Maturing, maybe,
But still covered in those awful pimples
And sweating through my makeup.
I feel a longing
Discontent
Baffling in a way that makes perfect sense.
An “if only” added to a “but actually”
Sandwiched between two slices of denial
With a side of greasy fries.
I pause to self-edit
But make myself press on.
Maybe if I don’t acknowledge the failures,
They’ll simply
Disappear.

Written March 13, 2014

Eaten by the pizza

Last Saturday, I tried something new. Daring. Exciting. Horrifying.

The Pointersaurus Pizza Challenge was the craziest attempt at eating I’ve ever made, and that’s including all those Thanksgivings that left me more stuffed than the turkey.

Believe me, I was prepared. I’d been drinking a gallon of water every evening to stretch out my stomach. I ate half of a 20-lb watermelon for dinner the day before to make sure I could handle the volume. The day of the eating challenge, my teammate and I were jazzed and ready.

Even after seeing the massive 28-inch, 11-lb, sausage-and-pepperoni pizza come out of the oven, we were optimistic we could finish it within the hour. No amount of suffering could keep us from the $500 prize winnings — we had our 80s montage music playlist playing and everything.

Our Pointersaurus. Yes, the actual pizza we (almost) ate.

Our Pointersaurus. Yes, the actual pizza we (almost) ate. That box is a yard wide.

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