So things are pretty blissful here in my life, as many of you know now after seeing our new place. The heat is stuck on still, but I’m choosing to look on that as a metaphor for our burning love. I’m so in love with the apartment that I actually mopped the kitchen floor yesterday–not to much purpose, since I never really learned to clean a floor, but I thought it resonated well as a symbolic gesture. Coming home every day is a sweaty delight. I’m really looking forward to getting that radiator fixed so my delight can be of the dryer sort.
And now, here are some conversations between seventeenth-century poet Robert Herrick and his mistress, Anthea.
R: Anthea! I have written a poem about my immense love for you!
A: Oh, Robin, how thrilling!
R: It’s about how miserable I will be when you die.
A: Take me, you manly stack of artist!
FIVE YEARS LATER
R: Anthea! I have written a poem about my immense love for you!
A: Oh, yes? Does it involve my death, by any chance?
R: About the depths of misery I will sink to when you are dead, my darling.
A: This is, what? The sixteenth of these?
R: It begins, ‘When you are rotting cold and still…’
A: *Sigh.*
FIVE YEARS LATER
R: Anthea! I have written a poem about–
A: This had better not involve my death.
R: It’s about flowers.
A: Really? Well, that sounds very–
R: Dead flowers, which symbolize my–
A: Get out of my sight.
If you haven’t seen Garden State, fucking do it, man.
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