Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

Part of my new project: The Many Deaths of Humpty Dumpty.

As the young Humpty Dumpty pulled clothes from his locker, a spit wad stuck to the back of his shell.

Humpty didn’t feel it. That’s one of the perks and pains of not having skin.

He slammed the door shut and made his way to gym class. As the boys all changed into their shorts and T-shirts, Humpty carefully wrapped himself in bubble wrap. After all, when one is an egg, one must be extremely careful while playing basketball or dodge ball or with any ball.

As he entered the gym, a foot came out of nowhere to trip him. Poor round Humpty rolled all the way to midcourt, his protective wrap popping and snapping the entire way.

“Egg!” the coach shouted, “Quit screwing around and get up. This isn’t an omelet pan!”

All of the boys erupted in laughter. Humpty rocked himself up and got in line with the rest of his class—all human boys.

“Today, men,” the coach shouted for no reason, “we climb the rope!”

Half of the boys seemed really excited. The other half seemed nervous. Humpty went into hysterics.

“Sir,” he whimpered. “Coach!” he said a little louder. “Hey!” He was unable to raise his voice above the sound of sliding mats and feet on floor.

Boy after boy climbed the rope. One even hit the bell at the top. Humpty was next. He approached the rope.

“Sir,” he said to the coach.

“What is it, egg?”

“It isn’t safe. I can’t climb the rope.”

“Sure you can.”

“But sir, I am brittle and round. My shape isn’t ideal for climbing anything—ladders, walls, and especially ropes.”

“The coach looked down his crooked nose at the young Humpty Dumpty. “You will climb this rope,” he sneered, “or you will die trying.”

“But I have a note. I’m not supposed to engage in any kind of …”

The coach cut Humpty off by shoving the rope in his face. Humpty looked into his coach's eyes one more time. Coach simply mouthed go.

So Humpty climbed. He pulled with his little stick arms and pushed with is little stick legs. The rope hissed against his calcified exterior.

But near the top, Humpty’s grip slipped.

He let out a shriek before he plummeted to the floor.

There was a horrific crack. A terrible splat. And the entire class of boys along with the coach were spattered with albumen and yolk.

“Oh,” the coach mumbled. “This is bad. Quick, boys, we need to put him back together.”

So they tried. They called in the art teacher. Her glue wouldn’t hold. They called in the science teacher, but his suggestion of solidifying the liquid parts with heat didn’t help with the shell. The school nurse was at a total loss for she had not enough bandages.

They just simply couldn’t put Humpty together again.

I wish a happy Valentines to EVERYONE.

I'm getting a bit political here, but you know what?

It's my blog and I'll post what I want to.

Happy V Day to EVERYONE.

Let's preserve love for all.

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo.

It’s been a while since I’ve written ridiculous haikus.

In honor of Valentines Day, these haikus are about love. Enjoy.

I love you so much.

You are the reason I breathe.

Now make me breakfast.

For you, love, choc’lates.

Made of the finest coco.

I ate half of them.

Let’s go on a date.

A nice show with champagne date.

I’ll bring the singles.

I have your present.

It’s right here. Inside my pants.

Surprise! Chocolates!

What did you expect?

Perhaps something more dirty?

Did you check my butt?

Romantic movie.

Now let me turn off the lights.

Bowchikabowbow.

Kiss me, lover boy.

Kiss me here and here and here.

Oh, wait, Batman’s on!

This is a short blog. Part 2.

Dear Diary,

Jackpot!

Happy February 10th.

I have green high heel shoes.

I'm a bridesmaid in a upcoming wedding.

And we're all wearing green shoes.

I got mine the other day. And I'm going to wear them around my apartment. Cause I'll be damned if I don't get my money's worth out of these things.

They look fantastic with my robe, after all.

I wonder what it’s like to be a pharmacist.

It’s no secret that I’ve got less-than-stellar lungs.

It’s not really anything to be ashamed of. Many many people have asthma. Many many people take medicine to alleviate the symptoms and live “normal” lives.

Whatever.

I didn’t ever realize, though, how expensive trying to be “normal” was.

While I was still a salaried employee with corporate insurance, I would go to the pharmacy, cough up the 30 dollar co-pay, and be on my merry way with two-months of daily breathing assistance in my purse.

When I went to pay for my inhaler last night with my independent insurance, the situation was way different.

The pharmacist informed me the inhaler was going to cost over 170 dollars.

And all of a sudden, I couldn’t breath. Just like that, the asthma medication I needed to prevent attacks actually caused one.

“But I have insurance,” I wheezed.

“That is with insurance,” she responded while scrolling through some database on her computer screen. “Without insurance, it’s $230.00.” (In all fairness, she was very sympathetic and sounded tired. Situations like this must be happening more and more frequently.)

I believe at this point, I actually grabbed my chest, as one often does at the beginning of an asthma flare up.

“Is there a generic that’s cheaper?” I wheezed.

Another pharmacist approached, “Unfortunately not." He paused. "Do you not want it?”

I don’t want it, I need it, I thought. Because I'm one of those people who would be dead if it weren't for modern medicine.

I'm an evolutionary cheater.

My chest grew tighter. Perhaps I winced.

The first pharmacist went for the box of medicine to open it. “Oh my god, do you need it now?”

“No, I’m alright,” I quietly lied. I swiped my bank card as quickly as I could, trying not to think about the depleting funds. Then I dashed to a corner and sucked medicine into my lungs with urgency.

As the albuterol fog spread to my brain, as the familiar tingling started in my thighs and toes and fingers, as I realized that I’ll be getting a paycheck in a week, I relaxed.

At least insurance shaved off something, right?

I have a new reason to heart Stephen King.

From the penman of "Pet Cemetery" and other scary-as-balls works:

"Both Rowling [ed: of Harry Potter fame] and Meyer [ed: of Twilight, which blows], they're speaking directly to young people. ... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good."

Boom. Roasted.

I have a personal vendetta against Twilight. Perhaps King will join my cause.