Tales of mirth and whoa, Nelly!

By Woncha Telmé Moore

The sad lament retraces life's
labyrinthine, erring course anew

That is to say, we learn from experience, or should I clarify, it is hoped one would learn from the emotional pratfalls one endures after one chases what must for once and for all be called first chemistry and then perhaps later, love, over the rickety rope-and- plank bridge of desire. Let it be noted that if plank gives way or rope should fray, and it is you left dangling in the wind over the chasm of the unknown, it is you who must summon your own rescue. No one will save you better, or at all. Hand over hand, you must move up the rope and onto firmament. Chemistry is a dear school and a fool suffers acid burns, or at the very least, rope burns.
If you are thinking I am speaking from experience, I might grant you that, for the moment, I know that of which I speak and that it is likely I would subtitle my own debacle/desmadre of love as:
When you from honor went apart
You stabbed me to the very heart.
Yeah, yeah, yeah -- I saw you, too. ¿Y qué? It will happen another thousand times at the intersection of Walk and Don't Walk, each time each of us feeling a little less of a belch in the swing of the metronome. You still look angry. Me, I'm keeping time. Don't lose sight you were the one chose we'd both be lonely. It's not ever made sense to me.
Ah, those wild conceits that swayed me to your purpose. Enough of this pathos which from me would make your sides shake with laughter, and on to other tales of mirth and whoa, Nelly!
As you know, it is Thanksgiving that gives way to the social season in our fair burg, and it's been one heavily beaded bailazo after another, and here come the meriendas, those lofty afternoon tributes to this year's hybrid crop of Little Debbie cakes. And though the object at these soirees is to move food around plates as though you to your heart's content et but didn't really, I say, let them eat cake! -- which of course will have mother shouting, "Get thee to the trainer!"
As Goethe through Faust so aptly posed the question, we, too, must ask: "Why do you dream in lofty poet land? Why does a full house make you gay?"
Oh Batch, you are so sufrido! If you've no GF, the whining is unbearable. Then you get one and guess what, the whining is unbearable.
It's going to take more than all the King's Horses and all the King's Men to give our güerita back the felicitous life she once knew in her manse on the hill. Her mother, Big Güera, has invoked many petitions and remonstrances and the powers of a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics, but nothing has returned Paradise Lost.
Pero, wow! Our comadre has taken this saving-your-own-life very seriously. We have seen her on a variety of treks circambulating the city. Looking good!
Beauty and the Beast is the holiday chatter I overheard as an assessment of who's at the helm of one entity of local governance. Ooh, that finely chiseled face, that olive skin, the curly tresses, the fine mind. Pero, wow! Hats off (Panamas), to he who chose so able an administrator.
S como S. Go figure, and hey, use a little calculus! I gotta hand it to this low key public figure/public opinion character who has no price, which makes her stock soar. Have you ever seen anyone more sought after to hear confessions?