It all started with a thump. Then a ding.

It all started with a thump. Then a ding. And a swish. Next a fromp and a womp womp. It was terribly unimaginative but

so was most hip-hop these days. MC Playskool was writing his latest beats on a Fisher Price piano he stole from

his parent's basement. The humidity down there had done a number on the key board, but the sound was greatly improved by

insulation that surrounded the walls. Inadvertently, the anti-mold material in the wall boards somehow caused

the zombies to think twice about coming in. It's a good thing, since zombies love to eat

brains. A recent study shows they prefer mushy ones, often found under Yankees caps. No surprise that most zombies live

in Amherst, disguised as obnoxious Red Sox fans. No one would ever suspect that their fanaticism was a coverup for

aligning with the chanting thugs. Their rant "nothing sweeter than beating Jeeter" was really more than we

leg kicks and tutus. It was disturbing, to say the least, but it got our attention. I will never

dance the Swan Lake ever again. What a depressing ending! My dancing days might be over, but I still like to

eat pudding made from the eyelashes of my ex-boyfriends. Who would have thought that

would cross my mind? I was trying not to thing about it, but the voice grew louder and were speaking nonsense, or was it?

Was it the train wreck building beneath the surface that I refused to look at? Was it the past I'd been careening blindly away from for years? Was it her? So special and gone?

Because if it was her then I didn't do a good enough job of trying to get rid of her. I started out irritable, then turned mean. I'd hang up on her when she was mid-sentence, just

after I flushed the toilet. That would stop the calls for a day or so, but she'd always

start texting me, "So, is your colitis better now? :* " I simply had to come up with a better excuse for not seeing her. I know! My marimba! I'll tell her I broke my marimba!

"I'm over the colitis," I said, "but I had a nasty fall & broke my marimba." "Oh?" she said, "I didn't know you played an instrument." Nuts! I thought a marimba was a bone in your

tailbone. That would explain all the pain in my ass when I walk. I said as much to her. "I think that's your coccyx," she replied. I just glared at her and her vast vocabulary.

"That" I calmly explained "is the last thing on your mind". I spun, graceful, driving my exposed coccyx deep into her eyesocket. "Now my dear, THAT is what teen spirit tastes like"