About them

A veces demaciado ruidosamento
pero dulce y amable tambien
Caleb, mi companero adorado

Adds sugar to soda
adds spice to my life
Chaos, who won't dance

Tastes as good as she looks
my bedroom bombshell
meet Cristian, the luscious

Like Al Gore on speed
my tormentor, my TiPlink
Davis, the unbearable

A god among men
my late-night chat-up
Fat Tony Giovanni. Enough said.

Lives in palindromes
my humanoid encyclopedia
Heather, la competetiva

A vision of flamboyance
my suspected kin
Katie, the not-so-chaste

Always into some(onethingwhere) new
my "hey, let's try this" girl
That spells Kirstyn

Slept through stats (and passed)
abuser of my tickle spots
Nathan, the nerd

Sounds like the 60s
the voice in my head
Owen, who won't grow up

Emo only in writing
my anti-civics, anti-Smith co-conspirator
Paige, a budding Progressive

Speaks of love, sounds like Africa
my quiet riot
Rose, die mooi engel

All ears and smiles
my mistletoe harvesting buddy
Shanna, the possesive

Destined for assassination
my improbability factor
Thad, with the hair

Likes to play Switzerland
my verbal punching bag
Tyler, the creepy

I have a problem

I like order. There's a comfort about a well-aligned shelf of books and an evely spaced place setting that simply can't be found anywhere else. Conversely, there's an unmatchable abrasiveness about a crooked picture frame, an uneven layer of icing. I can't explain it, but I'm much happier when things are as I think they should be- without this I am irritable, distractable, and generally bad-off.
This is not my problem.
My problem is female, does not share my love of organization, and works with me. I like to run a neat hostess station- keep the silverware tightly rolled, stack the menus evenly- it isn't difficult, but some part of her rebels against this system. She lays place settings pell-mell, flings the menus into utter disarray, but worst of all (the absolute of the Hostessing Cardinal Sins) she draws silverware from the decorative chest rather than the wrought baskets specified for that purpose. It's appalling. Even worse, she had the gall to tell me that that's how we're going to do it. Point blank. Undermining both the well-worn system and my seniorative authority. I abhor confrontations, possibly with more gusto than I resent disorder, but her ways must be mended. She's not fit to work with the public. I only hope Sinan has the good sense to put her back making salads, where she belongs.

If you were to crack my head open, these would spill out

Forgetmenots, judgemenots,
call them what you may,
my linguistic buds

Bloody mannequins
on a mock battlefield
in remembrance

Fruit fly flitting
and living and loving for
two weeks, max

The sun's affections
lost on scholars-
exam week

Outside my window the bird
drags morning out of bed
three hours early

The warm spring breeze
whispers through the curtains
in a thousand languages

The Problem

It's not that I'm trying to be different, it's that everyone else is trying to be the same.