squished

When I feel squished, I don't ooze.
Unless you are counting tears.
But really, I don't cry.  I'd like to.  But the tears don't come.
I say, "please feel" and wait.
"Please Feel!" and grimace.
Screw it.
But you know, I care.  A lot.
I guess, you know, sometimes, I get "choked up".
That's good.  I think.  That I feel.
I shouldn't have to ask you.  I should know.  And, I guess that is the problem.
I do know.

comedy

I find it much easier to write angst than humor.  I want to feel happy, but I feel angst.   I shaved my dog.  It was funny.  But then it started to be less funny.  And there were a lot of questions.  Mostly about me (a few about my parents and one about my high school guidance counselor's suggestive note in my yearbook).  And once you've shaved the dog for a laugh, it's done, it's over.  Shaving the cat will be derivative.  Then, of course, there will be nagging abuse issues...and, all of a sudden, it will be decided that it was NEVER funny to shave the dog.  And, all of a sudden, you're the angst ridden loser you always were.  Write what you know.

guess

Why did you not notice?  Did you not care?
I did it for you.
I thought.  At the time.
But.  I guess it was for me.  
I wish you had noticed.
But.  
I guess you were hoping I noticed.