I often correspond with someone called Me. Oh, it’s about all sorts of things, my correspondence with Me.

There are times when it’s pleasant, flattering even. But it’s usually not long after the pleasant stuff that the tone changes. I niggle, carp, bring up the past. Me has that effect on me.

I know I’m whining now, but the main problem really is Me. You need details? No need. Just about everything about Me is wrong these days, and I’m beginning to see how it was always going to turn out this way. I’ve been able to conjure up so many unfavourable opinions and judgements on Me, heard or overheard decades ago, things people have said about Me with which I can only agree heartily! Yes, I may be conjuring – but I’m not imagining. Those things were said.

Of course, it’s not all the deliberate fault of Me: I doubt that Me was born adequate for this life and this world.

I’m now wondering whether there is any point in the relationship. It’s nothing but agitation for me, and the more I try to correct Me the worse Me gets. You’d think the mention of countless opportunities missed would sting Me into action, but Me prefers to stagnate and stink in a wet nappy of lethargy and habit. I know my criticisms won’t change Me, but at least I get to vent. Bad luck if Me takes it the wrong way every time.



The strangest thing happened today.

You know how there are some people you only know through internet forums and such? How you are at odds with some of these people in a way you never could be if you were in their presence a lot?  They represent a set of topics or opinions, rather than themselves. That’s how it’s been with me and Me for…oh, forever.

Till today!

Today I actually ran into Me. After all these years of correspondence! After a lifetime, in fact!

I was in town doing a bit of business, and there was Me, on the footpath outside Crazy Kev’s Discounts. It’s not supposed to happen, I know, but it did happen.

Me looked like anyone of that age might. Ordinary clothes, hardly athletic or impressive, but lively enough and cheerful enough. Nothing special.

Suddenly, Me did not represent or embody anything. Me was just someone on the street outside a discount shop, much like myself. It was so odd, meeting the person Me, not the abstraction Me.

We immediately started to chat. I asked how Me was going and Me answered like anybody would. I responded automatically to the same enquiries. Neither one of us was all that interested in the other’s coming and goings. It was just a pleasant surprise to actually meet at last, person to person.

Anyway, after we’d chatted we went our separate ways. Me had reminded me that I’d always wanted to buy a silicone soup ladle, so I popped into Crazy Kev’s and bought one. Really, for someone who makes as much soup as I do, it’s a good investment.



I woke up this morning and immediately went to start my usual correspondence with Me. It’s like an itch I have to scratch, knowing I’ll only inflame it.

Then I remembered our encounter the day before and decided to drop the correspondence. Just drop it. I’d let Me be some person with a present life and present needs, rather than an embodiment or a history of anything, if you know what I mean. Me could be Me. Me as I found Me in the street outside Crazy Kev’s. Some bloke with a small number of things to do today, not a long, deep, intense narrative which I can never get to the end of. Aren’t I the one who hates literature?

So instead of corresponding I just got busy with my day. I did make some soup this evening, and I tried out the new ladle. It’s handy enough, I suppose…however I wish Me had thought it through a bit better and realised that a silicone ladle is too soft for heavy stirring and for dredging when the level in the pot gets low. It’s typical of Me to just…

But I won’t start on Me.

About mosomoso

Growing moso bamboo on the mid-coast of NSW, Australia.
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11 Responses to ME

  1. beththeserf says:

    Literature can be an escape from Me.
    Use carb soda and vinegar fer the pot….
    Sometimes works fer me.

  2. beththeserf says:

    Now moso, er, Me, I was wondering, … do yer think the above narrative maybe
    missies some, or all, of the following literary conventions?: Plot development,
    theme, perhaps character modification, apposite imagery, suspense, climax.
    Would yersay buying the wrong ladel meets the dramatic requirements of
    ‘the climax?’

    Hope yer take this in the spirit in which it is intended. )

    • mosomoso says:

      Yes, but you wouldn’t believe how quick it was to write. It was like going to the dentist when he tells you: No fillings! You’re dreading it…then it’s over. When I feel more energetic I’m going to edit out “Things have come to such a head…” and a few other excresences to make the yarn even shorter. That’s in case I ever have to read it myself.

      There used to be this pulp writer (alcoholic, of course) called Fredric Brown. He wrote heaps of stories of which some were only a few paras long. To a lazy and unwilling writer like me he’s a god. The man was a god, I say.

      By the way, your acorn ration will be cut for impertinence, beginning next harvest. Serfs!

  3. beththeserf says:

    On rereading, I think yer’d call this coincidental meeting outside Crazy Kev’s
    between Me and me a ‘deux ex machina.’ Tsk! Only Euripides can get away
    with that.

  4. beththeserf says:

    Stuff yer acorn ration. Serfs hav revolted before – and don’t you fergit

  5. beththeserf says:

    On second thoughts I’ll take yer reduced ration of acorns. (

  6. beththeserf says:

    Straight outa’ Hammurabi, Toff. )
    So how is Episode 2 coming along. Angry is she? Hmmm,
    looks like Lokusta might be developing a revenge theme.

    • mosomoso says:

      That Locusta, she’s going to be in a mood, I can tell you.

      In the meantime I’m doing another shortie, something completely different again. I’m a variety freak.

  7. beththeserf says:

    I am too so I cannot offer a reproof tho’ still awaitin the second episode of St L

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