Chalkboard

The giant chalkboard once again denies my humanity. How long have I have been working on relationship advice, talking to women and winking just right, germinating love cells in their science experiment bodies? "You don't have enough spinach; grow some muscles, manufacture some bones," the chalk writes, "Please tell everyone you know you don't understand beauty and affection at all." I grab an eraser, but it runs out of my hands, crashes like a sports car on the teacher's desk, toppling my desperate apple. Then I try a bucket of water and sponges, but the water flows away from me, seeking to join back with a river, and the sponges announce with puffing noises they'd rather be under the sea than have me squeeze them. I guess I'll have to live with it; not a billboard advertising my failures, just a remedial classroom that dates and lovers can enter, one sad day at a time.