THE SINGLE MAN, HIS APARTMENT MATE, HER BOYFRIEND, AND TURKEYS IN GENERAL

Sometimes I probably sound blocked. You know, frustrated and quivering. Then I wave my little furry arms around frantically.
Just about sprung with tension.
The beast.

Darn good thing my apartment mate has Aspergers coming out the ears, and is totally oblivious to any of my emotions unless I spell it out in cohesively organized detail.

She used to be my girlfriend. We broke up three and a half years ago, and I've gotten over that. Given that while I had initiated the relationship, she was the one who initiated the break-up, so has she.
It has been a very long time now.
That isn't the problem.


LYRIC BIRD CADENCES CAUSE FRUSTRATION

There are modulations in her voice when she talks to her boyfriend on the phone that drive me up the wall. Tones that I never heard her make before. She sounds sweet and full of character. Lively, funny, and affectionate.
As, melodiously, she speaks in detail about Thanksgiving Turkey.

She had it both days, and he had turkey too, because she cooked it for him. With all the trimmings.

Two people she knows had deep-fried turkey for Thanksgiving. The secrets to which, apparently, are moistness and peanut oil. That last item holds a higher temperature, which is melodiously optimum for doing a Turkey.
The person she spoke to melodiously is from Tennessee.

But not everyone had deep-fried Turkey. Others had it roasted, and a few ate ham. But all of them had a great four-day celebration with food and drink and relatives. Melodiously so. She heard from her fellow volunteers on Saturday, and her co-workers today. Everybody had a grand old time.
She was on the phone with her boyfriend this evening.
Talking about everyone talking about food.
Likable people, and their holidays.
I'm happy that they had fun.
And ate turkeys.
Truly.

Dammit, guys, can't you instead just talk about Cyber Monday?
Do you have to cause melodious turkey modulation?

It is almost like she's singing.

Nobody has ever sounded just so likable when talking about turkeys.


I don't know what I miss most; being loved, or someone kindly conversing with me about turkeys. Turkeys that they had, and I had. It cannot be the turkeys themselves, because they never taste as good as they look.
It's probably just the people who associate with turkeys.
Which is why I'll heading out after typing this.
This turkey needs time to be alone.

Turkeys beware; I growl.

"And so the grumpy badger of Nob Hill went out into the dark San Francisco night, with a pouch of rubbed-out Orlik tobacco and two pipes, to enjoy the fog, cold, dampness, and quiet at the top of the slope, where likely not a single person would speak melodiously to another person about turkeys, or fun times, or even sweetly of deep-frying with peanut oil. The key to which, for a large bird, is a high temperature."


I will also be carrying a tamper, matches, and pipe cleaners.
Like a furry boy scout, I come prepared.
Primed for modulation.
But pissy.

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