A Game Not Invented By Me

Plum-looniness time in MFALand, Henshaw. Thesis deadlines loom, and people are going starkers. Meanwhile, the weather is doing that cold-then-hot thing, and the late afternoon sun knows how to aim right for your eyes.

I mean, like "crazy;" not like naked.
Although I’m not up on the gossip. Who knows.


So, a friend writes with a new game. Actually, to be fair, some guy I’ve never met, who first wrote someone else, started it off. Unimportant. What is important is that said friend writes me with the guy's first move:

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings in My Pants
The Color Purple in My Pants
Little Women in My Pants

I wrote back:
The Road in My Pants.
Also: Another Bullshit Night in Suck City in My Pants. I think we've all been there.

And she replied, with a spark of hope:
The Sun Also Rises in My Pants
The Secret History in My Pants

And Marshall came up with this one:
A Good Man is Hard to Find in My Pants.

Her:
Pyres in My Pants

Me:
Oranges are Not the Only Fruit in My Pants.

Her:
Honored Guest in My Pants

Me:
Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been in My Pants?

And she tells me:
Running With Scissors in My Pants

Me:
Q: What is the What in My Pants?
A: All the Pretty Horses in My Pants.

(With thanks to Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Louisa May Alcott, Cormac McCarthy, Nick Flynn, Hemmingway, Donna Tartt, Flannery O’Conner, Derek Nikitas, Jeannette Winterson, Joy Williams, Joyce Carol Oates, Augusten Burroughs, Dave Eggers and Cormac McCarthy again.)