deep cheese

I don't mean anything racist, just the stress-inducing aspects of this whole business. Like for instance she wants to take some crazy bunch of connecting flights just to get there, and hopes that I can be some sort of chaperone/escort. She just popped the whole business on me today, "Hey, guess what, I'm interested in a Pakistani guy. I want to visit him because his father's bankrupt and he can't leave the country. And it'll take us four days just to get there." Needless to say, the reaction of our own family will likely be apoplectic, if she ever decides to let them know. I mean, if nothing else, then at least hello, variables?

If y!a suffered a technical apocalypse and there was only time left for one last question (and of course no real possibility of answers unless you stuck your mailing address up) what would you ask?

Sites featuring symptoms and stuff would also be quite welcome. My main character in a story I'm writing has this severe mood swing thing going on before and is just depressed after delivery, so I want to know exactly what I'm depicting here. Thanks...

Window-frame

Through an empty window-frame

I smell my mother’s voice,

seem to sense the edge of a skirling thing

that’s maybe only

on the wrong side of my eye.

I keep getting best-answer messages for my last best-answer. I was off the com for a day and when I came back I'd gotten 26 best-answer messages for the same answer. What should I do?

Been reading the lawbooks and so far no solution presents itself...

It wasn't me... it was the Enviromental Agency...

What She Felt

It ain’t over till the Fat Lady sings

said the waitress to herself.

Her husband huffed like

some lowslung animal on the couch,

badger, armadillo.

The apron shifted on its hook, her hair was still a plastered,

brainlike mess on her forehead.

Things happened, as they always do.

No logic, just do.

In the kitchen there’s knives, under the sink a rubbish chute.

Under the kitchen window, four stories down,

a white yolk of hair

on a concrete griddle, an

old woman,

plump.

She knew desperation

and she chopped it into manageable portions,

as she had been taught to in cooking school

before it all fell apart, and

she learned to fingertip trays like

it was magic, illusion, an insignificance, an easiness, like simultaneously (part of previous line)

pissing, and shitting.

When the chute shut up, she returned to the couch

and sat down, stretching out,

taking up the whole, free surface of it.

What she felt:

Glare shaded in colour, voices manifesting out of crackle.

Her skin shrouded in a crepe that stung with static at the merest shiver. (part of the previous line.)

A flush somewhere, the rape of a loud door banging.

Eating from outside, a tune from downstairs:

Slick jelly donuts, an old murderess singing.

I can be really stupid about my own stuff, and I'm feeling particularly stupid about this, so I need ideas and as much abuse as you can give me.

What She Felt

It ain’t over till the Fat Lady sings

said the waitress to herself.

Her husband huffed like

some lowslung animal on the couch,

badger, armadillo.

The apron shifted on its hook, her hair was still a plastered,

brainlike mess on her forehead.

Things happened, as they always do.

No logic, just do.

In the kitchen there’s knives, under the sink a rubbish chute.

Under the kitchen window, four stories down,

a white yolk of hair

on a concrete griddle, an

old woman,

plump.

She knew desperation

and she chopped it into manageable portions,

as she had been taught to in cooking school

before it all fell apart, and

she learned to fingertip trays like

it was magic, illusion, an insignificance, an easiness, like simultaneously (part of previous line)

pissing, and shitting.

When the chute shut up, she returned to the couch

and sat down, stretching out,

taking up the whole, free surface of it.

What she felt:

Glare shaded in colour, voices manifesting out of crackle.

Her skin shrouded in a crepe that stung with static at the merest shiver. (part of the previous line.)

A flush somewhere, the rape of a loud door banging.

Eating from outside, a tune from downstairs:

Slick jelly donuts, an old murderess singing.

Before Sleep

1.

My brother explains

as we lie awaiting sleep

how you take a Girl.

2.Big Bro.

Try to understand

what you're taught tonight:

Girl drugged and studiedly raped.

Thanks to all critters... was wondering if you've got any ideas of a way to reformulate it. Initially I was trying to write a single haiku. Doesn't seem to do the trick.

Or do you think it's not enough as it is? Should I flesh this out? I know it doesn't necessarily suggest resolution as it is, but part of the reason is that there is no real resolution once this kind of thing is stuck in you, only suppression/sublimation(out of fashion now). Do you think I should still attempt a longer arc here?

I'm not sure about the title as well. Was thinking about pills you take before sleep.