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Broken Record

My brother’s like a broken record.  He tells me about how we used to bike around the neighborhood pretending we were race car drivers, and how we’d gained multiple knee scrapes from turning the curb too fast. He’ll tell me this story twice, thrice, or even four times in a row, and laugh about the good ol’ days. I laugh with him, because though he doesn’t remember that he’s already told me this story for the fourth time in a row, he does remember the fun we had. My brother’s like a broken record, but I don’t mind one bit.

Perhaps I’m an Alien


Sometimes I feel like a weirdo

Everywhere I go.

I wonder about social norms

Like when should I say hello


Or when should I ignore someone

And keep going on my way?

Or how do I end a conversation

Before walking away?


If I say hello and no one hears,

That is a little awkward for me.

If I don’t say hello and the other person does

That makes me worry.


What if the other person thinks

That I think poorly of them

Because instead of saying hello

I decided to ignore them?


When someone says “Thank you,”

What should I say?

Do I say, “No problem,” 

Or “My pleasure, have a good day?”


I think the latter is the most pleasant

But when I say “No problem,” by accident

I think, “Now they think I was annoyed by them

And that their presence was inconvenient.”


Perhaps I am an alien

Who somehow got left behind

By the other aliens, and as a result 

I’m struggling with the customs of mankind.


I’d like to think I’m a fairy

Forced to live amongst the human race.

But I’m most likely a silly, lost alien

Who needs to get back to outer space.

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