the decades and decades it takes to understand

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I swear to you that I have been making a hairy deal out of the travesty of whistling tea kettles for most of my life. It got worse rather than better. I'm very weird about harsh sounds. I have made it known to most of the general population that whistling tea kettles are flat out obnoxious, irredeemable incarnations of the worst of human fancy. I will pop out with it in the midst of some sexy kitchen items store, unmistakably audibly, to the chagrin of chic shop owners everywhere, that only dolts would purchase such a travesty of ultimate annoyance.

Well, these days, I am cooing to my whistling, screaming, tea kettle—which only very rarely bothers with anything as wimpy as tea water—that its dulcet tones are soothing and deeply gratifying, that it's a fucking bodhisattva of ultimate love for all sentient beings. Yes, I bloody fucking damn well do.

I don't mean it.

I mean it, but not genuinely enough. I must meditate more on the burnt out husk of my humble abode and count all the times I have been able to miss that unhappy future only on account of my tea kettle screeching holy abomination on my head. Still, the time is going to come when I decide to drive to town, and then decide to have another cup of coffee first, put on the water, grab my keys and leave. Yes. That's coming.

I have been dreaming such important stuff lately, but I wonder if we can put a whistle on dreams too....
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