Dating Anne Frank (a prose piece)

Sometimes my face doesn’t do what I want it to do.
I don’t like your face.
What are you going to do about it.
On such a beautiful day you might think nothing matters.
Nothing can hurt you, or us.
But something can.
Attention.
I don’t like the attention you give to me.
Isn’t anything else important in your life?
Or is it this new trend, ‘me.’
I know my sign says I’m suppose to enjoy such ego boosting
But I don’t like it.
It’s boring me.
So boring that I need to write about it.
Man, I don’t like ending sentences with ‘it.’
Let’s just have sex.
I like ending sentences with ‘sex.’
I like ending nights with ‘sex.’
If there’s ‘sex’ in the anywhere, anytime, during any sentence,
I will not complain unless it’s to ‘not have’ sex.
I need to write a poem that my cousin will be proud of.
She teaches English at college level.
I should name this poem, To Evelyn,
Except she wouldn’t consider this a poem.
Poet’s wouldn’t consider this a poem.
I would like to fight Shakespeare.
Not romantically, with pens and ink,
But brutally, with fists and sticks.
I don’t really care who would win or
Who I could share the story with.
I want him to hit me.
I want to hit him.
I want to be him.
If he was next to me at my table would he want to be me?
Did he want to be anyone?
He stole from people.
He stole ideas, sentences, even word for word, lines.
I never stole anything.
That’s a lie.
I never lied, though.
Hm.
I would challenge Shakespeare to a chess match.
I play with clock and it is in my favor, that I would win.
Back to her.
Her face is beautiful.
Her words are beginning to bore me.
Cause they’re all about me.
I don’t care about me.
And if I did I don’t want to hear it from someone else.
I don’t really know her so I don’t really respect her.
This is more like a diary.
Like the diary of Anne Frank.
I would have sex with Anne Frank.
If I were hidden in the attic with her; I would come-on to her.
Not while she was writing.
I would be writing.
Writing my own diary.
The first entry would be…
‘I am in an attic with a girl that’s a bit younger than me. I will wait a couple of months before letting her know I am interested in being with her sexually. Right now the sleeping arrangements are all over the place. She’s with her Father by the old lamps and turkish rugs. I’m by the window edge and a collection of old clothing. My side gets drafty and she has most of the light from the lamps. I get the sun but it’s winter right now so that’s not a plus. When we start dating I will ask to sleep over on her side of the attic. I’ll have to ask her Father’s permission. He has terrible gas. We don’t really eat much except bread, and pickles so I wonder where it’s coming from. Sometimes we get eggs. I hope it’s not from that. Anne eats eggs, too. Sometimes she eats more than me and my Mother. She says it’s all she can eat without being sick but I think she’s just carb conscious. I told her if she’s worried about weight gain she should take more trips to the lake instead of hiding her nose in that damn book. Also, that way I could see her in her bathing suit a bit more. Bathing suits are terrible. I hope in the future bathing suits will look different. One should be able to feel more water directly onto the skin. These are some sketches of bathing suits. As you can see, more of the body is shown, which might upset my grandmother but I’ll just give her another pickle and she’ll be ok. I have inserted pockets in the bathing suits specifically for this reason. The briny-ness of the water should keep the pickle fresh. I wonder what Anne is writing about. I wonder if it’s about me. That would be funny if we’re both writing about each other. She is probably sketching out different bathing suits for me to wear. One day when she is eating more eggs than me in the kitchen, I will sneak through her diary and write my own entry.’
It will go like this…
“Hey, Anne! fooled ya! it’s me, Eugene. I snuck up to go through your diary while you were eating. Tell me, do eggs give your father gas? If so, please refrain from sharing them with him. I think you are great, Anne. Not just because you are the only girl my age in this attic for the last eight months, but also because I feel we have built a trustful relationship. Sure you can say I broke that trust by going through your diary but I had to talk to you Anne, without your father and my mother around to interfere. i love you, Anne. i watch you all the time. and not only because you are the only female in this room, who isn’t my mother, and my hormones are raging, but also because i like intelligent woman and you are always writing and i take that as a sign of intelligence. also you never talk much. yes, i know it’s because the germans might find us, but if we ever live in a house together I hope you talk as much as you do now; not much. Anne, I just looked through a couple entries of your diary and you haven’t mentioned me at all. You seem to be really preoccupied with your fathers ailing health and general feelings about the war. That does not seem to be health appropriate. It is kind of depressing if you think about it and it seems you do. There goes another entry. You seem to not mention me at all. I will skip to the beginning maybe there was something I have done wrong to offend you. There you go again, talking about the room. Look Anne, not a critique, merely an opinion, but how much can one talk about an attic? What about me? What about the lake? I am thinking of signing this entry off with your name so that there will at least be one entry that is a bit different. You really need to expand your view. You are a bit young and it is exemplified in your writing. Anne, next time your Father sneaks off to listen to the radio downstairs, do you think I could come over the to the antique lamps where you are? I wouldn’t make any noise. I would like to spoon with you. You probably don’t know what spoon is. But imagine a spoon, next to another spoon. Can you see in your minds eye how they fit very well with each other? I would like to do that with you. You are developing Anne, and I need to know if you like boys. I am referring specifically to entry #38 of your diary where you seem to discuss, in great detail, my mothers clothing, sleeping habits, and curve her neck makes as she rests. You could be a lesbian. You probably don’t know what that is either. Anne, we are perfect for one another. I can teach you so much and you can not-talk, all the time, as much as you want. Uh-oh, I smell egg farts. I think your Father is on his way back into the attic. Speak soon!

-Anne (really Eugene!)

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