Lonely, then there’s Renaissance Fair lonely by Jon Riccio

Lonely, then there’s Renaissance Fair lonely

by Jon Riccio

It’s not as if my -ex was Cthulhu’s gift to menopause, but Bubonic, please. Do you know what it’s like being courted to the sound of a Wiccan calendar flapping in the wind? Hrothgar, take a number. Preferably the maypole repairwoman’s.

Advice?

That’s a toughie, though here’s what I told my sister as she was headed out to teach CPR at the for-profit college (let there be druids on reserve – that girl is time with the breathing blocked): When it comes to lovers or druthers, re-pursue the one who lanced you at the altar. They don’t call him Clitcalibur for nothing. They, meaning all the maiden hangers-on. The Beatrices, Ophelias and Guineveres. More like Vicki Big Lots, Subway Elaine and Sheila of the Penney J.C.

Oh, beg your pardon. That’s the wizard on call waiting.
“What part of Mongolian BarBQ, 12:30, don’t you understand?”

Rare do I hornswoggle, but as fulfillment’s undulant, I set the rates. It’s because I’m waiting on the check to clear for NASA chauffer school. Someone has to drive those spacemen from doorbell to Canaveral. It might as well be my Cutlass and me – both soon to upgrade, lawsuit pending.

Long-term, I buy a live-in chef, misremember all the warlock hookups, land an elevator at this Hilton without a Merlin. Inevitably we air our dirty armor. That’s when the elixir seethes.