“A woman can be dangerous,” I said.

“What?” My friends asked me.

“Yes. You can tell a lot about a woman, based on what she does.”


“Take her profession, for instance. Accountants are careful—black and white. Teachers are bossy.”

“Andy—that’s a stereotype.”

“Then, there are garbage collectors. They stink.”

“Andy—that’s a man’s job.”

“Now—look who has a stereotype. Why do you think women wear perfume?”

“This line of questioning is getting too crazy for me. Objection.”

And the conversation went on that way, until everyone had a headache.

They wanted to know about my date,

but I wouldn’t tell them anything.

“It’s amazing women will even date you!” She said.

“I agree.”

And these are the sentiments I share openly.

The others can’t even be written down.

The ego is a mouse without any muscles

It hides in corners

in holes

and it wants to steal the cheese

and please

and if it can’t get what it wants

by being a mouse

it will eat poison

or wander into a mouse-trap.

They were all drinking wine, while eating cheese, and laughing,

while I, the rat, sat, smiling.

I wasn’t drinking, or eating

because I enjoy being sober.

The ego must be hunted,

and killed,

before it eats too much and drinks too much

and grows to enormous size.

A little ego

is dangerous,

because it gets threatened

all the time,

and it can never know enough

or be enough.

It is challenged

because it is so small.

Look at the dictators from the past

and you will see little men

who could never be big enough.

It isn’t their fault,

but who is to blame?

That doesn’t solve

millions murdered.

My female friends

give me advice,

but I have been forewarned

not to take their advice

I told them so…

“You’re in a cult, Andy. You need help.”

“There’s no doubt about that,” I said.

My ego is a bomb.

Any tinkering with it

and it might blow up, in my face.

If your ego gets in trouble

you can always print money, with your face on every bill

but the green monster

gets larger

as inflation

lines your pockets with useless paper

like leaves, waiting to be burned.


3 thoughts on “What I Can’t Write Down

  1. A woman “may” be dangerous. Or she can do the can can. Why? Because it’s dangerous to be a woman. 🧐
    Hey, btw thanks for stopping by my new blog. Your writing is CHARGED. like electra glide in blue, buddy. 👮🏻‍♂️ Fairly interesting stuff, bro. 😬👍

    Liked by 1 person

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