Human Spaghetti


There are sometimes where I just wonder how I get myself in the situations that I end up in. Take last night for example, a sterling example of this phenomenon. Ness, Mellowman, and I were doing Fat Frogg trivia night, like we do every week. Much of our fun before we start the trivia is thinking of an inappropriate name for our team that night. This particular night, Mellowman suggested that our trio go by the name, “Three roofies away from a good time”. Ness and I laughed and gave the affirmative on that name. However, later that night the host said that there is now going to a semester long contest going, so now we have to keep this name for the rest of the semester. Oh boy, explaining that to Miss O or The Grin is not going to be fun. By the way, Mellowman also spelled roofie, “r-u-f-i-e”. So not only does our permenant team name have rape connotations, it’s also misspelled.

And then there are moments like today. I was reading a poem in class today. It was a dark poem titled, “Mom’s spaghetti sauce.” It was a very moody poem that took place at night. The first few stanzas all made reference to the fact that it was indeed moody and dark, because it was night time. It was only until the fourth stanza that any reference was made to mom or spaghetti. Then the poem informed us the narrator’s mother was dead. A memory poem if you will. There was also a rather sad point where the narrator looks at an indent on the couch thinks of it as the only thing left of his mother.

Now a disclaimer before I tell what I interpreted from this poem: I am a strange person, it is only recently that I realized that my brain patterns are quite different from the ones that most human beings possess. That said I am much more likely to come to an answer which not only people have never reached, they also should never reach.

So here’s what my brain spat out: Spaghetti, Mom dead, dark, moody, night, spaghetti. So where is Mom? Oh my lord, did the narrator make spaghetti sauce out of his mom? When in class, I was able to keep my mouth on the poem for the first five or six minutes of evaluation. However, he’s what I did wrong…I actually said, “Yeah (name deleted), has your narrator just made spaghetti sauce out of his mother?” Two of the longest seconds of silence filled the room. The class room reaction was mixed between shock, horror, disgust, and disbelief. The eventual cascade of comments came, hard and heavy. I could have sworn I heard someone say, “What’s wrong with you?”, but that could been my imagination. My teacher just laughed aloud. So now my whole class thinks I’m disturbed. Great day.


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