i'm not getting along well with the english language these days. you might say that we're on the outs. it doesn't like me, and i absolutely hate it back. i'm glaring at it from over my shoulder, spitting on it as i also stomp all over it, and, worst of all, i'm throwing heavy wooden objects at it out of a helpless sense of utter frustration. i just don't know what to do with it anymore. i feel it's time for our relationship to end, but i'm too old and lazy to start courting other languages. plus, i don't necessarily think that spanish or german or chinese or french could ever possibly please me the way english used to, with its wacky spelling rules and lovable idioms. damn this feeling. damn it to hell.

i just wish we could make up. the english language and i were working together on writing a story, and i feel like i did my part by sorting out the plot- but when it came to trying to weave the words together as to make the telling of the story lyrical and beautiful, the english language let me down and went out to play pool with the boys. i tried to lock it out of the house, throwing its possessions and punctuations and dictionaries out on the lawn, but it was only a few minutes before i swore aloud and decided that i would let it back in- but compromise by still giving it the cold shoulder and using it only when necessary, such as when i was forced to order a pizza. when it came back to me, it smelled of another writer's perfume and fiction, and entire, poetic sentences were lipsticked on its collar, on the collar that i had once starched. i sobbed and heaved a bowling trophy at it, then kicked it in the proverbial you-know-what. "it's over," i screamed. "i don't need you."

it raised its eyebrows and said, "jackie, i will treat you like crap and not ever cooperate with you, and i will confuse you and hurt you and disobey you- but you will never break up with me. you are dependent on me."

not wanting to speak and prove it correct, i heaved a second bowling trophy at it and crossed my arms. they're currently still crossed, and i'm biting down on my lip so hard that i'm drawing blood. i'm waiting for something- a fucking apology, a promise to work with me and not against me, or maybe for it to get down on its knees and beg me to forgive it and allow it to help tell my tale. i'm waiting for it to say, "i have the perfect paragraph, jackie. i'm ready to commit to this if you are."

and i will hug it and say, "yay! but let's not collaborate on any more limericks, okay?"