I am not your Ukulele Bitch. I refuse to listen to you pluck the goddamn strings anymore. You’re not with the right person for me. I don’t believe that you and I are meant for each other. You can sit there strumming your ukulele but I myself will want to be with each solitary male who walks in here without company. Does that scare you? I’m sorry if it does, but the tunes from your ukelele scare the shit out of me. Frankly, we have no use for tiny guitars in this relationship. Yes, darling, I called it a tiny guitar. Well I’m sorry it’s not, at least in your opinion, but it’s never provided me any joy. I remember when you got it for your birthday and you asked if I’d care to hear you play it. I said yes but you should now know I meant no. I don’t think it was a terrible gift, but you and I are two different souls, and I myself would never ask for a ukulele.
How many strings are on the ukulele anyway? How many would it take to lash a few wrists in this coffee shop? Why in God’s name do you keep bringing it back to the coffee shop anyway? Wish I could stop craving mocha lattes all the time and also that you didn’t come with me. I also wish you’d move out of the building, but I suppose you pay your rent just as I pay mine. I’m so very thankful I’ve never witnessed you collecting rent money by playing the ukulele on the sidewalk. I’d toss a penny in the case because I’ve been taught that giving a person a penny as a tip is by far the most insulting thing you can do. I know that you’d want to talk about it afterwards too, but I’ll be tired. Just let me sleep.
I wish you never played the ukulele the first time we met. I had just moved into the building and you were helping me move my boxes in and around. I loved your glasses and then I would have listened to you play the goddamn piccolo. I just thought you were neat. I came by way too often then, room 401. I didn’t like your room, but I liked what you added. Colorful posters of bands like Radiohead and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and bobbleheads of Russian Czars of the past and half empty bowls of macaroni on your counter. I like how I sank into your couch. I like how you took off those glasses of yours that I liked and pushed me onto the couch and touched me when I told you it was okay. Now, I’d like to do that with anyone else. Anyone else who has no ukulele talent, that is.
I think it’s pathetic that girls are always staring at you, groups of two or three of them, sipping their caramel macchiatos and texting their actual boyfriends, reconsidering breaking up just like they wanted to last Valentine’s day. I eat my chips and want you to think that I’m too fat or too bitchy or too short or whatever and leave me and go be with one of them. I bet at least one of them is a Tiffany. I just don’t like that name and I never did. I see you two now, though, artsy as the day is long in your apartment down the hall. I’ll be able to write down my press releases in peace and I won’t have you chasing after me to go out and get lattes.
Doesn’t the ukulele weigh you down? You have to take a carrying case with you each time you take it. People treat it as they’d treat someone with a dog. What instrument is that? How long have you had it? Can I see it? I swear that a golden retriever is ten times better than any instrument that makes you envision the seedier sides of Hawaii. I don’t suppose that thoughts like that often cross your mind. What does cross it? The fact that you have a girlfriend who cooks you pasta as you try to book your gigs? The fact that last Christmas you took her to meet your family in Boca Raton and all the did was sit on the couch the whole time? You’re an ugly person, man. Ugly.
Hope you enjoyed that. Penned it in class, really quickly. I liked how it came out.
