Not About the Election...At All

"On top of spaghetti,
all covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed.
It rolled off the table,
And into the floor.
And then my poor meatball,
Just rolled out the door."

It was a very sad and traumatic experience, and I don't think I've quite gotten over it. Not even after my therapist suggested that I write this song about it to, how did he put it..."release my pent up negativity before it grew to dangerous levels and consumed me in a raging torrent of frustration, loss, and self-loathing" or something equally encouraging. My therapist is a bit of a drama queen. I really don't think he's doing much good either, because even after three years of therapy I still can't get over the loss of that meatball. Surely even the crappiest therapist would have helped a little by now, but I still feel the same. It's like it was only yesterday I was sitting at that table, the smell of spaghetti sauce heavy in the air and they put down in front of me a plate of the delicious noodles, covered with Parmesan like white gold. And there, right on top of all that delicious Italian goodness was the most glorious meatball I had ever laid eyes on. My mouth, which had already been watering, now seemed to be trying to outdo Niagara Falls. I was either going to have to eat that meatball now, or find a bucket. But it was not to be! Oh! Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes...I feel again the gut-wrenching sorrow and pain of loss as I watched, as if in slow motion, the most horrible tragedy unfold before me. My uncle Mortimer is extremely allergic to cashews. But there weren't any cashews there, so he had no excuse! He sneezed for no reason at all! It was as if all the cruel fates of the universe were conspiring at this one instant to keep me and my meatball from our gastronomical bliss...My uncle Mortimer was seated right across from me, and I could see it coming. A sniffle...a twitch...I could see how his face began to spasm and contort in ways that no human face should. It was like some hell-spawned demon had possessed him for this one act of unspeakable evil. Then the mighty rush of wind! Like a storm from the north it rushed on dark wings right towards my meatball...my poor meatball...My meatball which was borne aloft on that fierce wind and carried to its certain doom. In my weakness, I ducked out of the way as the meatball flew off its perch of spaghetti. Curse this body and its reactions! If only I had been stronger...if only I had stood my ground I could have saved it. But I cowered in the floor, paralyzed by shock and the inhumanity of it all, and all I could do was watch as my meatball bounced along the table, and came crashing to the floor. But even this was not the end! Not content to just have my meatball sullied with the contagions and filth of the ground, whatever evil forces were driving the events that day continued their foul mission, rolling the meatball across the ground and right out the door. Never to be seen again.
I hung my head.
And I wept.

Three long years since that day, and the wound feels as fresh as ever. Even writing this down like my therapist suggested has only made me feel worse. I lost a part of myself that day, and I do not think I will ever be whole again.